


The Court of Miracles

by Lightning_Strikes_Again



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alfor and Zarkon are great friends, Alternate Universe - Based on VLD Canon, An AU where the rift and comet never happened, Criminal!Lotor, Descriptions of violence and child abuse, F/M, Good!Alfor, Good!Zonerva, Lotor is assumed dead, Lotura - Freeform, Parental grief for a lost child, Poverty and inequality, Queen!Allura, Zonerva, character injury, homeless!Lotor, large time gaps, mentions of past character death, mentions of prejudice against those of mixed blood, nudity and sexual content in later chapters, possibly triggering content
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-21
Updated: 2020-09-26
Packaged: 2021-02-28 03:53:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 41,237
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22837366
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lightning_Strikes_Again/pseuds/Lightning_Strikes_Again
Summary: A six-year-old Princess Allura of Altea visits Planet Daibazaal while on a diplomatic trip with her father. But Allura soon discovers that Daibazaal carries dark and strange secrets—including that the young Crown Prince may not be dead like his parents believe.
Relationships: Allura/Lotor (Voltron), Zarkon/Honerva (Voltron)
Comments: 68
Kudos: 104





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hey, all! Welcome to a new AU of mine, based off VLD. I hope you enjoy!

A six-year-old princess stared out in open awe of the markets of Daibazaal. Her dark fingers dug into the material of her father’s tunic. “Oh, father!” she said happily, pulling on the material. “Look—look at the fire dancers!”

King Alfor of Altea looked first down at his daughter, then followed her gaze. His handsome face stretched with a laugh. “Ah, yes. The famous fire dancers of Daibazaal.”

She squirmed in his arms. “I want to see. I want to see them better.”

He paused for a moment, then sighed and said, “Well, I suppose we were never much for decorum.” And he raised her up, and she giggled happily, squealing as he placed her over his shoulders. She grabbed onto his hair as he protectively tightened his hands around her little legs.

The Princess Allura of Altea was a tiny thing, having been born to an ailing mother. It seemed she never really grew save for her white curls that streamed down her back. She wiggled in joy, leaning her chin against her father’s head, eyes bright. “I see them!” she cried. “Father, look—look!”

“I am looking, my dear,” he called to her, voice raised up in pleasant amusement. “The fire troops of Emperor Zarkon are quite talented, are they not?”

The little girl was enraptured. Fire dancers raised great staffs in their purple hands, the ends streaming flames and sparks through the air. She’d always thought Galrans were a bit intimidating, with their height and fangs and claws—but here, she saw smiles on their faces. Delight among a mixed crowd. The woosh of the fire entrancing all.

Tall Galrans danced about each other, moving in time to tribal drums as their staffs spun in sharp arcs and quick figures, their feet a blur.

Allura cooed, her little fingers tightening into her father’s hair, her eyes wide in awe. But as she watched them, she caught sight of something strange.

There, in the corner of the market, hiding behind a trash receptacle, was a young Galran boy. He was dirty, his clothes ripped from sharp claws. His purple face bore a heavy bruise down his eye, and his little, clawed hand was reaching into the trash, rummaging through as he occasionally looked up at the fire dancers.

Allura’s bright smile faltered.

She stared at the boy instead of the fire dancers now, curious of the muddy color of his hair and of the various wounds he sported, down to split knuckles and a bloodied lip. He must have been a vagrant boy, Allura realized. And he did not look entirely Galran—he seemed far too short, and his hair was far too long.

He seemed to sense that he was being watched. His elfin ear flicked, and he turned. He stared at her with wide, Galran eyes, his purple face tight in fear. And he sunk down behind the trash receptable, holding a half-eaten piece of fried Vulo leg.

Princess Allura’s thin, white brows knitted together.

Her father began to walk to another stage of fire dancers, carrying her along.

She craned her neck, whining a bit as she stared at the trash receptacle, knowing that there was a soul hiding there, injured and bruised. Her breath caught as she bit her lip, feeling her strong and powerful father carry her away.

The boy’s yellow sclerae peeked out from the corner of the trash, eyeing her.

* * *

The memory of the poor Galran boy haunted Princess Allura for the rest of the show, until she leaned her cheek against her father’s head and closed her eyes, trying to wipe the memory from her mind.

King Alfor sensed her increasing sadness and displeasure. He lightly adjusted her on his shoulders, looking up. “What is wrong, little one?”

Allura hid her nose in her father’s warm, white hair. “I’m not happy anymore,” she whined.

His face faulted. “Why ever not? I thought you liked the fire dancers and the market.”

She felt strange in her gold and purple and blue dress, with her little crown of great wealth. All around her now, she could see the slums of the servant class Galrans and the filthy clothes of the homeless. She was beginning to realize now why four Altean guards stood around her father and her.

And her little heart ached, realizing the disparity between herself and others in the universe, who were not a princess like her.

Her sweet, small voice grew smaller. “Do you see them, father? How dirty and sad the people are?”

King Alfor narrowed his eyes, glancing about. And then suddenly, he lifted his daughter off from his shoulders, raising her up to hold her in his arms. He searched her eyes. “The planet of Daibazaal has endured hard times,” he said slowly, reaching to stroke Allura’s cheek. “But do not worry for them, little one. For we are here to help them.”

“Are we?” she whispered, her eyes watering.

The king smiled. “Of course. That is our greatest calling, Allura. To help our neighbors as much as we can.” He leaned forward and booped his nose against hers. “And I promise you, we *will.*”

Her nose wrinkled, and she giggled, patting her father’s cheek happily. She then nuzzled her face against his shoulder, her voice muffled by the high collar of his tunic. “But how, father? How will we help them?”

Alfor hummed. “In many ways. We are to meet Emperor Zarkon and Empress Honerva soon, to discuss it. I will tell you all about it after we agree on the terms.”

Her face faltered. Her father seemed to think she was too small to be included in diplomatic discussions. But she was quite already six years old, and she’d read a story once of a young princess saving a universe. She whined, “Am I to play in the gardens, then? While you talk?”

“Something like that.” He patted her back, smoothing down her wind-swept curls. “But you will meet the Emperor, for I have spoken to him about you. And you can tell him then that you wish to help him as well.”

“Is he nice?” she whispered.

“He is a…man of few words, but is very kind,” Alfor said softly, stroking her curls. “I’ve wanted you to meet him and his wife for quite a while now. But I could not risk you getting sick like your mother.”

“Is he scary like some Galrans? With fangs and claws?”

Alfor chuckled. “He does have fangs and claws, yes, but you will find he is a knightly sort of fellow.”

She pressed her lips together, and then asked earnestly, “Will there be other children at his castle? That I can play with in the gardens while you all talk?’

And the king’s face twitched. A dart of pain shadowed his eyes as he patted Allura’s hair. “…There once was. But I’m afraid the young prince Lotor fell to sleep long ago, just as your mother did.”

Allura blinked, and suddenly, her whole demeanor altered. She curled up tighter against her father. “And he didn’t wake up either?”

“No, little one. He did not.” Alfor leaned his cheek against Allura’s curls, protectively holding her as they walked through the market. “But Emperor Zarkon and Empress Honerva love him dearly still—just as we love mother, yes?”

“Oh, yes, father. Very much.” Her little fingers dug into his tunic helplessly, and her heart pulled. She hardly remembered the face of her mother now—it was a blurry, smiling face. A soft voice and warm arms. Her entire being ached to feel such arms again, and so she rested against her father without complaint or further question, thankful that she at least had him.

And then her heart pulled again, remembering the strange boy digging through the trash, knowing that he had no such father to hold him.

* * *

Princess Allura soon discovered that Empress Honerva of Daibazaal was a beautiful and stern woman. She wore Galran colors and sat beside Emperor Zarkon’s throne, but her physique and features were undeniably Altean, down to her little cheek markings.

Her face seemed aged as she glanced down at Allura. Her voice wavered. “Is this the child that Melenor bore to you, Alfor?”

Alfor set his hands on Allura’s shoulders comfortingly. “Our pride and joy. And finally cleared by doctors for intergalactic travel.”

Empress Honerva leaned forward a bit, her silver hair slipping down her royal dress. “Come here, princess,” she murmured, holding out her hand. “Let me see you.”

Allura hesitated, turning to her father, who gently urged her forward.

Her skirts fluttered around her as she approached the throne, curtseying in the way of a princess. “Empress Honerva,” she greeted, voice soft and wavering—not so much from fear, but from a lack of balance. She’d not been practicing her curtseys lately.

The empress gently grabbed onto her chin, raising her up to meet her eyes.

And then the empress swallowed hard, pulling away as if she had seen a ghost. “She looks like her mother,” she whispered. And then the empress ran a hand along her own stomach, her fingers trembling. “My own would have been but a year younger than Allura’s age. Had he lived.”

Alfor fell silent, his white brows knitting together. “The galaxy mourns with you, Honerva.”

She raised her chin, fighting down tears. “Yes, well.” And then she managed a weak smile, her breath catching. “My heart rises to see young life in these halls once more. And that we are together again, old friend.” She stood, the emblem of Daibazaal gleaming across the bust of her dress, her headdress catching the light. She raised her arms.

And Alfor moved forward, grasping onto her hands for the first time since Allura’s birth. His own eyes misted as he searched her eyes.

“You look older,” he mourned.

And there was a sudden glint in Honerva’s gold eyes, and she narrowed them. “And you look fatter,” she retorted, poking him with a sharp finger. Then she reached up and grabbed on hard to his growing beard. “And what in the stars is this—some new fashion on Altea?”

Allura giggled as her father made a strangled noise.

And then she flinched at the sound of a booming voice. “Alfor, son of Hufal,” came a deep, male voice. She turned her head to see a large Galran warrior sweep through the doors of the throne room. His plated forehead gleamed sharply, his uneven lips split wide to reveal sharp, long fangs. It took Allura a tick or two to realize that this man was smiling. “You dare enter my throne room when I am not here to greet you.”

Alfor turned around, his face lighting up. “Ah, Zarkon. What are friends for, except to pleasantly frustrate one another?”

The emperor huffed in an amused petulance, raising his chin. His diadem of red gems captured the light and made his own red eyes appear to glow. “Must I remind you, it is against the protocols of our people for you to greet anyone before you greet me. For I am—”

“—the rising and setting sun of your empire,” Alfor deadpanned happily. He waved his hand. “I know, I know. Decorum. Protocol. It’s all rather a lot of trouble for friends to go through. Also, for old time’s sake, I fear I must frustrate you at least once on this trip.”

Despite the booming happiness exuded by the emperor, Allura still moved to hide behind her father’s leg, her eyes wide in awe and fright. This Emperor Zarkon was a large and heavily muscled man, with eyes like nightmares.

With her movement, those red eyes slid to her.

Zarkon’s deep, booming voice softened. “The daughter of Alfor is with us as well, I see.” And for all the sharp armor that encased his hulking form, and for all the demonic traits he bore, his plated face seemed to soften as well. His heavy footsteps paused before them, and he kneeled, his plated knee hitting the stone floor with a hard clank.

Allura gasped, hiding a little farther behind Alfor.

Long, clawed fingers suddenly reached out, holding what appeared to be a little flower.

Emperor Zarkon’s voice lilted in a smooth, calming way. “A gift for the princess.”

Alfor was the first to react, his voice breaking with humor. “Careful now, Zarkon, your claws are likely to break its stem.”

The emperor still held out the flower to Allura, his red eyes earnest. “On the contrary,” he murmured. “I have held much more precious things. But I recall that Alteans love nature, and so I have picked this myself, as my welcoming gift to Princess Allura. Will you accept it, little one?”

The girl peeked her eyes out from behind Alfor’s leg, staring at him with lips tightly pressed together.

Alfor said, voice straining, “She’s not had a lot of contact with other people before, but—”

And then Allura reached forward and grabbed onto the flower. It was pink with red leaves that spiraled around the stem. “Pretty,” she whispered, hesitantly looking back up at Emperor Zarkon and managing a soft smile.

His own uneven lips stretched. “It is a very special flower on Diabazaal. It offers protection and health.”

And then he stood up, with something of a groan, his armor clanking. “Something we all need, I fear. The age begins to creak my bones.”

And Alfor’s face split knowingly, even as he patted Allura’s head in pride.

Zarkon moved forward, opening up his long, alien arms and quite fairly lifting up Alfor in a tight embrace. “Truly, it warms me to see you, old friend!”

The king wheezed a bit, sputtering awkwardly as he tried to pat Zarkon back. “Yes—very warming, indeed.” His boots twitched a bit, helplessly dangling in the air with the rest of him. “I need air.”

Zarkon released him, then helped to right him. “I forget,” he declared openly, “how weak Altean males are. Honerva, my love, is it true that I once fought beside this stick of a king?”

Her thin lips stretched, her gold eyes softening. “I fear it is true. Though Alfor is not as weak as he appears. Look how brightly he smiles despite the loss of Melenor.”

And the emperor faltered, searching his friend’s eyes. “Ah, yes,” he murmured. “That *is* strength. My deepest condolences, old friend.”

“And to you as well, Zarkon.”

The emperor paused, his red eyes misting with an emotion.

And suddenly, Allura did not fear him anymore, for she saw a father’s loss in him. It made him seem small, like he was missing a part of himself. The pride that lined his armored shoulders fell a bit, and his red eyes seemed to lose a certain glow.

For a time, the emperor could not speak. But he held out his clawed hand to Alfor, and Alfor grasped it, lips tight with solidarity.

For the first time in six years, the houses of Altea and Daibazaal stood reunited.

* * *

That night was a celebration, with large meals and dancers and tribal music. Princess Allura sat beside her father, her eyes wide, Zarkon’s flower tucked behind her ear. “What is this?” she demanded curiously, pointing at a dish, with fried onions wrapped around little pieces of puffed grain.

“That is the staple dish of the second tribe of Daibazaal,” her father said pleasantly. “Would you like some?”

The little princess nodded enthusiastically, reaching out with grabby hands.

A servant saw and moved to assist her, scooping some of the dish onto her plate. Allura cooed happily, curious of all the wondrous things of Daibazaal, lifted up by the spirit of laughter and play between her father and the kind emperor and empress. She thanked the servant and then dug her two-pronged fork into the dish, munching happily on the sweet and savory dish.

And then she remembered the boy—his little bruised hand shakily pulling out that half-eaten Vulo leg from the trash. 

The princess’s little face scrunched in a sudden sorrow, the food in her mouth turning to ash as she looked down at her full belly and her unscarred hands. She swallowed hard, feeling that the universe was not balanced somehow.

And so she very gingerly leaned forward and called out, “Emperor Zarkon?”

The hulking form of a man turned from conversation with her father to lean forward as well. “Yes, little one?”

She hesitated, then said, “There is so much food here. What will happen to the food we cannot eat?”

Emperor Zarkon gave her an odd look.

Alfor cut in, awkwardly saying, “Pay her no mind, she does not understand—”

And then Zarkon murmured gently, “The servants will eat their share, and then the remains shall be tossed.”

Princess Allura tapped her pronged fork against the plate, thinking of the boy in the market. “Many are starving,” she said, her little voice a squeak of hesitance. “Can I give my food to the beggars?”

And Alfor choked on his sprouts mid-bite.

Zarkon blinked then, his uneven lips stretched with a light chuckle. “Ah, the daughter of Alfor is only six, and is a bleeding heart yet!” He sat back in his chair, then elbowed Alfor. “She is certainly your daughter.”

Allura sat there, her eyes wide and innocent, afraid she had spoken out wrongly. She looked down, awkwardly setting down her fork.

The emperor called to her, “Those lower than the servant class cannot eat of our food.”

“Why?” she asked innocently.  
  


Alfor turned to her, face tight. “My daughter, let us speak of this at a later time, and—”

“—Because,” Zarkon cut in, ignoring Alfor, waving his hand, “this food is blessed by the druids for a specific purpose.” His plated face turned to a merry grimace. “We’ve tried to give it away, but…superstitions remain strong around my people.”

Allura searched his red eyes, a little hope in her dying away. “What if the food wasn’t blessed, then?”

“Oh, dear,” Alfor whispered tightly, looking to his friend. “My apologies—this is her first trip outside of the confines of Altea. She knows not what she speaks.”

“Fear not, old friend.” Zarkon turned away, grabbing onto his own pronged fork. There was a sadness in him, even as his lips twitched. “Your daughter sees the pains of my people and already seeks a solution. Which is more than *you* have done at this point.”

The king scoffed, his elfin ears flicking back. “I beg your pardon,” he complained. “Why, I’ve brought my royal checkbook and the approval of my advisors for various social initiatives, how—”

Honerva threw something like a grape at him, and it struck his cheek.

And the aged, tired empress managed a smile. “Do shut your mouth, Alfor,” she murmured, “before you stick your foot in it.”

* * *

Later that night, the little princess climbed out the window in her private room, wearing a white sleeping gown, her white hair pulled back by a pink ribbon. The night was cool, and Daibazaal’s grass was yellow and soft. The red earth squished a bit beneath her toes, and she giggled, swishing her dress back and forth in the night wind.

The great castle of Daibazaal was dark in ways that her home on Altea was not. It hid the two moons that hung in the sky, and Allura desired to see them, in want of light.

But as she stood there, hidden by the garden bushes, she caught sight of something strange—and the sounds of an altercation. The princess’s white brows puzzled, and she leaned forward against the bushes, peeking out curiously.

The guards of the castle were swatting away a small person from the gates of the incinerator, where the remains of the feast had been tossed. Allura’s eyes widened as she realized who it was.

It was the boy—the one from the market.

Allura flinched as she saw a Galran guard grab onto the boy’s arm, ripping him back from the wooden gate. “It is a maggot,” one of them sneered. “Look at its mixed features.”

“What do you think it is?”

“Who cares? There’s so many of them, now that our emperor has married that Altean whore.”

The boy tried to swipe at them with his claws, but the larger soldier struck him in the rear with the flat end of his sword, sending him falling forward.

Allura backstepped, stumbling back in her white dress. But she could still see the boy through the bushes, and her elfin ears drooped, her little jaw drooping as she saw the guards kick him soundly in the ribs. The boy yelped, curling in on himself to protect his face, his eyes squeezing shut. He bared his fangs weakly, whimpering again with another kick.

And then one of the guards raised his sword. “We should kill it and put it out of its misery.”

The princess’s heart stopped at the sight of the sword and the glimmer of sharp steel. And she stopped thinking. “No!” she cried out, pulling herself up and running from the bushes, her little feet a patter of fear. “No, do not kill him, please!”

There was a great silence that encompassed the area as the guards turned to see the Princess Allura of Altea running toward them. They paused, then lowered their swords and pulled away from the boy who was wheezing blood on the ground.

“Princess,” they greeted, setting their eyes to the distance.

The little girl’s eyes were watering hard as she stared at the boy trembling in a curl. “Do not hurt him again,” she commanded, her high voice tight. “For I am Princess Allura of Altea, and I say so.”

One of the guards glanced down at her. There was a tight disappointment and derision in his face, but he said nothing, for he was servant class and not a royal.

The other guard, though, dared to test his luck. “Little princess,” he murmured. “This brat was trying to steal blessed food from the incinerator. It is our duty to protect the castle and its belongings. The boy’s punishment is death, according to Galran law.”

Princess Allura swallowed down emotion, for she was quite certain she understood only a little of what he said. “It’s just the trash,” she whispered.

The guards said nothing.

Her voice broke as she lifted her little chin, attempting to stand as her father did. “You will leave him. He’s hurt badly. And that’s enough. And—and if you don’t obey me—” Her little lips pressed together, her mind whirling—“I will tell father and the Emperor that *you* hurt me too. And you’ll go away for a very long time.”

That did it.

The guards quickly sheathed their swords, one of them truly frightened. They marched away, muttering under their breaths about stupid princesses with bleeding hearts.

It left Allura standing there, with the boy still curled on his side, his body trembling. She hesitated, daring to kneel beside him. “Boy, are you alright?”

The boy groaned, and the sound was of a sob. He shakily rose up on his hands and knees, fighting down tears. A few still slipped down his bruised cheek, and he awkwardly wiped his nose across his tunic sleeve. He could not look at her, his muddy hair straggling against his dirty cheek. And then his clawed hand shakily moved to touch his ribs where the guards had beat him.

His little face pinched with pain, and his glowing, yellow sclerae began to well even harder with tears. But this close, she could see he had blue, slit eyes—more like the emperor’s than the full-yellow of many Galrans in the market.

The boy’s claws scratched helplessly at his stomach still as he held there, trying to breathe. He could not look her in the eye.

Allura leaned closer. “I can help you,” she whispered. “You—you feel hurt?”

His sharp eyes flickered to her, suspicious and scared. His bloodied lip trembled, and he nodded.

“Hold still.” Her fingers gently pressed against his bruised cheek, and he flinched, then calmed, watching her with bleary eyes as he realized that she was not attacking him.

“It’s alright,” she cooed softly.

And then her fingers glowed, and slowly, the harsh bruise upon his face cooled into a yellow-green, then sunk back to his lavender skin, the swelling decreasing to reveal a more delicate brow. The boy’s blue eyes remained wide in shock, and he looked down at himself, seeing his many cuts and scratches fade away, his little ribs knitting back together until he could fully breathe once more.

Allura pulled her hand away from his cheek, managing a soft smile. “Is that better?”

The boy’s breath caught hard. His little chest fluttered with a shaky sob as he looked over his hand, then moved his elbow back and forth in awe. He touched his side, his eyes watering. “Magic,” he whispered. His voice was high like her own, but a shaky warble and hoarse, as if he had not spoken in a long time. He looked at her in surprise now. “You are magic.”

She gave him a relieved smile, her pretty face splitting happily. She giggled, even as her own eyes misted at the sight of him. “No, I am a princess.”

He swallowed, his heart still fluttering like a bird’s as he stared at her. And then he sat back, his long legs stretching out before him. “You touched me,” he whispered, reaching up to his healed cheek. “And it did not hurt.”

“Of course, it wouldn’t hurt,” she said softly. “I was just healing you. Those guards are not very nice.”

He fell silent, still staring at his hand in awe, with his claws no longer broken from the boots of the guards. He twisted at his torso and swiped lightly at the air before him, as if to catch a bug. And then he did it again, suddenly smiling through his tears. He shakily managed a giggle of his own, and he began to cry, touching his stomach. “Food?” he begged her. “Do you have food?”

And Allura’s little brow suddenly quirked. She leaned forward and gently held out her hand, whispering conspiratorially, “I took some from the feast, in my dress pockets. Do you like sweet bread?”

The boy hesitated, then tentatively placed his dirty hand in hers, his suspicion dampening into a hesitant trust and awe. He whispered, voice quiet, “I like anything.”

Princess Allura noticed then that the boy smelled like trash, and his hands were greasy with mud and grime, but she tried to be polite as she could, guiding him back to her private room. “You will like sweet bread,” she encouraged. “I ate three whole loaves once.”

The boy’s eyes widened innocently, and he licked his fangs, his small mouth watering in desperation. “Three loaves?”

“Yes.” She held a deep excitement to show him new things, and to keep his mouth smiling bright. Though he had fangs, there was something pleasant about his mouth. “And, um, I saved some berry juice as well. I begged father for it. But I will give it to you.”

His breath hitched as her hand slipped from his to grab for the window. The princess awkwardly climbed up, her dress twisting around her legs, and then she slid over the side to land on her feet. She held out her hand.

“Come on,” she encouraged. “You’re safe with me.”

And so he mimicked her, tentatively crawling into the great palace of the Emperor Zarkon and Empress Honerva, which smelled strongly of Galran spices and sweet things from the feast. His old boots hit the tile, and he stood there awkwardly, looking up with a dropped jaw at the opulence of the guest room.

His lavender cheeks flushed, knowing that he did not belong here, and that he was dirtying the princess’s room. But then his little nose raised up, and he caught a delicious scent.

The princess dug through the pockets of her old dress hanging on a lounge chair, and she held out a half-loaf of sweet bread she’d stolen. She held it out to him, eyes earnest.

He hesitated, his stomach a raw, deep ache. He reached out, grabbing it from her, then quickly crunching his fangs down upon it, fearful it would be taken away.

Allura squeaked, watching him with a morbid curiosity as he scarfed down the offering. “Um, don’t choke,” she begged. “It’s alright—”

The boy moaned as he ate, tears rising in his eyes to slip down healed cheeks. He squatted down as he munched, trying to stuff as much of the bread into his mouth as he could.

How many quintants had he smelled this scent—unable to obtain—?

The princess grabbed for her berry juice drink, silently offering it to him.

His little clawed fingers touched hers as he reached for it, then looked down at it, hesitantly sticking out his tongue to lap at the liquid like a Vulo or other animal. His eyes widened at the taste, his long, angled tongue slipping back into his mouth. He stared at her as if she owned the universe.

The sight was so odd that Allura giggled. “Do drink it. I believe they will have more for breakfast.” She was far too happy from his own happiness to mourn the loss of the sweet drink.

The boy gulped it down, a bit breathless, his eyes still watery as he pulled the glass away. He made a whimper at the sight of it empty.

Princess Allura then hesitated. “Do you…want more to eat?”

Those big, blue eyes widened, and he nodded vigorously. “Please,” he begged.

She backed away then, raising a finger. “Stay here,” she commanded. “I will tell the cooks I am still hungry, and I will get you more.”

The boy sat there in the midst of his own dirt on the fine tiles of the castle, overwhelmed. He nodded again, then looked down and began to lick his palms in want of every crumb of sweet bread.

Princess Allura’s face faltered, for in him, she saw such want—as she had never quite seen before. She turned away, deciding to tell the cooks that Altean princesses had to eat a lot more and more often than other Alteans. Perhaps they would believe her.

* * *

By the time Allura returned to her room, the boy had licked clean the berry glass and his hands, sitting helplessly on the floor, waiting patiently for her return. His blue eyes lit up as her door opened, with her carrying the scent of a little personal dish—a plant and meat casserole. The smell of meat inspired him to lift up his nose, sniffing with greater gusto. “Vulo,” he whispered happily.

Allura smiled at the sound of his voice and his simple joy. “Do you like Vulo?”

His breath hitched. He still seemed a mix between overwhelmed and overjoyed, his little face lit up with tear after tear. He shakily held out his dirty arms, which were thin and long like the rest of him—a rather awkwardly proportioned boy, with feet too big in comparison.

She offered him the dish, holding out a fork—

—only for him to dig his little hands into the dish itself, his eyes slitting with Galran instinct to feed. He scarfed at it happily, his ears flicking back in pure delight as he filled his belly, the meat shreds and pieces of vegetable catching on his fangs and the corner of his mouth. For all of his delight, he was careful not to waste or spill a single drop of the food.

Allura awkwardly lowered the fork she’d brought him and kneeled beside him. “Do you…have a name, boy?”

He looked at her, his purple cheeks bulged out with food. He blinked, then swallowed the gulp of food whole. “Sincline,” he whispered hesitantly.

She paused at that, her brows knitting together. The word *Sincline* was a dark word in Galran language, meaning “curse.” She fell silent, her heart aching. “Oh.”

He stared down at his own food-globbed hands, watching Vulo shreds slip back into the casserole bowl. His muddy hair dripped into the bowl, and he said, voice soft, “I am a Sincline, for I am not pure Galran.”

Allura tilted her head. “Is that so bad?”

The boy’s expression was hesitant. “It’s very bad." 

She made a noise. “But Emperor Zarkon and Honerva—they had a baby once. That makes him not pure Galran either, because the Empress is Altean like me. And their baby was a prince!”

His elfin ears drooped. He hesitantly began to chew on a strip of Vulo meat again, murmuring with a muffled voice, “He died.” And then he swallowed hard on his meal. “Because he was a half-breed. All half-breeds die.”

“But you’re not dead,” she argued.

His eyes misted. “Because of you.” He looked back down at his meal, raising a messy handful of the casserole to his mouth, eating to hide the emotion in him. The dish was almost gone now. He wasn’t even try to savor it—for he did not know when his next meal would be.

In that tick, the little princess felt her eyes water. She did not want anyone to go to sleep as her mother had. The sleep of death meant that person never came back, and the thought of Sincline going to sleep forever made her breath catch.

She bit her lip, wiping at her eyes. And then she wiggled up, her pink hair ribbons catching the moonlight from the window. “You smell bad,” she said suddenly.

He paused and looked up at her in confusion.

Her voice wavered. “Would you want to take a bath? So you don’t smell bad?”

The boy began to lick at his claws, then nodded innocently, only to say, “But it has not rained in four days. I have to wait for rain.”

And Allura held out her hand once more. “I can make it rain,” she said, “ _on command_ here.”

His blue eyes widened.

And that was how the wild Princess Allura of Altea ended up standing guard outside her own bathroom, carrying a decorative walking stick she’d found as if it were a weapon, prancing back and forth like the guards of the castle while one vagrant boy played in her bath, splashing the water with his hands in surprise of the princess’s many powers.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to the following awesome people for reviewing last time! 
> 
> Lady Experiment: Thank you so much, dear! Bless you for zooming over from discord, haha. 
> 
> EllieDoll: Yaaas, my goal is to try writing quality shit as best as I can, lol. Thank you so much for your support!! 
> 
> MalevoLiss (MissLissa1): Haha, you and me both! I'm letting this one kinda write itself, so we'll see where it goes, haha. Thanks for joining me on this journey! 
> 
> asennnaa: Haha, thank you for indulging my smoltura angst. XD I appreciate it! 
> 
> Miss_Elizabethh: Bless your heart! Thank you for taking a chance on this story, and I hope you like where it goes! 
> 
> LunarMagnolia: Guh, yaaas, I love Zonerva with baby princess. Good!Zonerva is such an interesting concept to explore. Thanks as always!! 
> 
> KairaB: Thank you so much for checking out this story! To answer your question, I made Lotor here one year younger than Allura as a nod to VLD canon, in which Allura was born first. But I didn't want to make the gap too significant, haha. Thanks again for your review!

It came to be their little secret, that whenever the royal family of Altea visited, a vagrant boy would sneak to Princess Allura’s window for sweet breads and a warm bath. The little princess occasionally packed extra dresses, and after Sincline would bathe, clothed in Allura’s own pink bathrobe, they would sit on the floor, sticking out their tongues in concentration as they tried to patch up his clothes.

“Do you remember your family, Sincline?” she asked one night, months after they had met.

The boy shook his head, his thin, white brows narrowing as he tried to sew a hole in his pants. He was using a black piece of fabric from one of Allura’s mourning dresses. “No. I remember only the house.”

“The house?”

“Orphanage,” he clarified, his high voice catching oddly. He looked down. “But Great Mother was mean, like the guards. So I ran.” He sewed another stitched, growing more skillful with each patch. Princess Allura and King Alfor’s regular visits to Daibazaal now meant he had one reliable meal at least every several quintants. He’d relaxed more around her, no longer fearful or suspicious that she would take away his food or slap him. He even slept soundly atop Allura’s bed with her, trusting her enough not to attack him in his sleep.

The princess was strange to him with how she did not turn him away as an Untouchable—instead offering her very bed to him, and falling asleep right beside him, sometimes leaning into him for warmth.

His little heart skipped with happiness that he had the princess at least. That for the first time in his whole life, someone liked him and smiled whenever she saw him, even if he were covered in dirt and more bruises from trying to steal in the market place.

Allura glanced up at him, her face a pout. “I wish you could come back home with me. Where no one would be mean to you again.”

He met her eyes, a longing rising in him. “People are mean no matter where I go. Only you are nice.”

The dress they were mutilating for the sake of his clothes was her mourning dress for the anniversary of Crown Prince Lotor’s death, which had been a somber affair all day. She patted the material in pain. “Emperor Zarkon and the Empress are nice,” she disagreed softly. “If you don’t want to come home with me, then maybe you could meet them, and they could help you. They had a baby like you once.”

He swallowed hard. The needle began to tremble in his hand. Even the thought of approaching the emperor was forbidden to Untouchables. “I can’t.”

“Why not?” she whined. “They’re unhappy, and you’re unhappy, and you all could be _happy_.”

The boy paused, lowering his needle. He looked down at his clawed hands, which pained him. He was beginning to grow again with the nutrition and sleep he was receiving from the princess. His hands were larger than hers now. He hesitated, then said, “Emperors don’t talk to Untouchables.”

She pressed her lips together, leaning forward. “Let me talk to the emperor,” she pleaded. “I can say you’re very nice, and they will let you into the throne room. Because you need help. I know they wouldn’t say no if they knew what you were.”

The boy looked up at her. His blue eyes began to water. He managed to whisper, “I don’t even know what I am.”

Allura looked him over, raising her chin. “You’re my friend. That’s what you are.”

And they patched up his pants in the silence, with Allura scooting close to offer him her warmth and her shoulder. The Galran boy leaned against her, nuzzling his nose against the crook of her neck to breathe in her comforting scent, fighting off tears and the terrible hope that maybe there was an end to suffering somewhere.

“Would they like me?” he whispered.

The princess leaned her head against his, setting down her sewing needle. “I think so.” She swallowed hard. “The Emperor cries a lot when he thinks no one is looking. And the Empress sighs and rubs her belly, because she is thinking of her baby.”

His little breath puffed out against her neck. “The prince?”

She made an affirmative noise, patting her belly. “Like this. I think she wants another baby, but I don’t know where they come from. So you would work just fine.”

The boy pulled away, inhaling shakily. He awkwardly returned to sewing the hole in his pants, his lips pursed with emotion. “They won’t want another baby.”

Allura searched his eyes innocently. “What do you mean?”

He hesitated, then said, “The prince got assa—” his tongue stumbled over the word—“assabinated.” That still wasn’t right, but his voice rose in passion. “That’s what happens to half-breeds. And even if they help me—” his eyes rose with tears again—“I’ll get assabinated too one day.” He looked down in fear.

His clawed hands began to shake.

The guards had almost assabinated him before the princess had stopped them. He was living on borrowed time as it was.

Allura’s face fell. “What is assabinated?”

“Killed,” he whispered. “Someone makes you go to sleep forever.”

She made a noise of worry, then wrapped her arms around him. “No, I don’t want you to sleep forever.”

The boy bit his lip, his breath hitching. He leaned against her again, grabbing onto her small arms for comfort. “I don’t want to either.”

The princess hugged him tighter, her eyes watering. “You won’t get assabinated. I won’t let it happen.”

“You promise?"

“Yes,” she whispered firmly, squeezing him tighter. The boy smelled of her own soaps, but he carried a certain scent all his own. At times, it struck her as familiar—as if she had smelled it elsewhere in the castle, or on someone else.

He wrapped his small, growing arms around her as well, holding on tight, hiding his face in her hair, sniffing her again and again, in hopes of drawing off his own tears.

* * *

But the next night, the strange boy Sincline did not return. 

Princess Allura soon grew inconsolable, afraid that someone in the market had made him go to sleep forever. She cried and cried the whole night through, holding onto the mourning dress she’d ruined for him and staring at the bowl of food she’d brought from the kitchen—its warmth turning cold as the moon slid behind clouds.

So inconsolable was she that she could not hide her tears from her father the next day, instead blubbering in a fright that her friend might have died. Alfor, still waking up, was at a loss, thinking she spoke of an imaginary friend she’d conjured from portraits or suits of armor.

“It’s alright, my daughter,” he cooed to her, holding her as he tried to stick a forkful of eggs into his mouth. “Your friend will come back when you need him most. That is how friends are.”

The little girl sobbed harder.

Across the table, one Emperor Zarkon and Honerva looked at each other. The emperor leaned forward and said, his deep voice soft, “Princess, who was this friend of yours? Can you describe him to me?”

She sniffled, turning awkwardly on her father’s lap, her curls bounding haphazardly. “A boy,” she said petulantly. “He was a half-breed with purple skin and white hair, and blue eyes like berries, but they were slit like yours. And he really liked Vulo meat but hated eggplants. And he sneezed a lot around Watrila flowers. And he cried because he didn’t wanna be assabinated.”

And suddenly, Honerva and Zarkon’s eyes widened, the both of them paling hard, for she had described their once-little boy, the Crown Prince Lotor.

Honerva’s eyes narrowed in pain upon Allura. “And this boy—he talked to you?”

“Not a lot at first,” she cried, wiping her eyes. “But then he talked about many things. And he liked my book of fairy tales.” Her blue and purple eyes slid off to the corner of the room, her lip quivering. “Can you find him? I don’t want him to get assabinated.”

Alfor set down his fork. “Where in the stars did you learn that word?” he demanded.

“From the boy,” she said passionately. “From Sincline.”

From _curse_ , per its meaning in the Galran language.

Zarkon stood up, his strong face slack in fear. He turned to Honerva and demanded, “The druids. What dark magic have they conjured in these halls? For yesterday, they chanted many things at the ceremony around Lotor’s vault.”

The empress stood as well, tears in her eyes. “Those were ceremonial chants in the Ancient languages—lullabies for sleep and peace.”

The emperor slammed his fist down on the breakfast table, his face breaking hard as tears rose in his eyes. “That is our son. Princess Allura has described our son, somehow. Did they call up his spirit? Did they send it away?”

And Allura remained in her father’s lap, feeling Alfor’s arms tighten protectively around her in worry, sensing her own increasing upset and confusion.

* * *

The castle of Daibazaal descended into a strange chaos, with the emperor and empress trying to patiently ask Princess Allura questions, voices strained and emotions frayed. The little girl hid in her father’s lap, helplessly trying to explain that no, Sincline did not walk through walls. The guards had beat him, and she saw it, so he was quite solid.

Zarkon desperately attempted to track down the guards that Allura said had beat Lotor, only for them to have mysteriously disappeared off shift, with nothing but Allura’s somewhat faulty memory to identify them. No matter the angle they tried, there seemed to be no physical trail back to the boy Allura had seen.

As if he were truly a ghost.

That evening, the emperor sat at his desk, holding a little stuffed toy in his hands that had once belonged to his son. He turned the little stuffed Vulo over, his clawed finger running along the smooth fur, reaching a point where the fur snagged. His infant son had chewed on it, gumming the fur to bits while staring up with those big, gum-drop blue eyes…his little claws swiping happily at air…

He swallowed back hard emotion, for every time he felt he was in control of his grief, he discovered he wasn’t. The loss of his son was his darkest shame—the ultimate proof that he had failed utterly as a father. And even now, it seemed, his son’s spirit wandered helplessly on the planes of Daibazaal, fearful of “assabination.”

Zarkon had never heard Lotor speak. But his uneven lips cracked with a sob at the thought that Lotor could. That somehow, this ghost of him had grown—that Lotor was _still learning_ , even in death.

That Lotor knew what assassination was. Maybe could still feel the sting of his death.

He stroked the little fur Vulo, his red eyes brimming with tears. They slipped down his face as his lips pulled back, his breath hitching. “My boy,” he whispered. “My son.”

Even after so many years, he could still see with perfect clarity the cradle splattered in blood—

Emperor Zarkon curled in on himself, holding the toy Vulo tightly, stroking the little paw that still bore a blood stain. “If you can hear me,” he whispered, squeezing his eyes shut, “know that I wish you would appear before me as well. For I am your father, and I love you still.”

Princess Allura’s depiction of Lotor suggested a bleak afterlife—one that greatly unsettled Zarkon, who had long believed the druids’ depictions of a peaceful, sunny realm of the dead, where no one hungered or felt pain. This Lotor she’d described had been beaten and had starved for food.

For Vulo.

“I would have protected you,” he whispered, then flinched because he in fact hadn’t. He ended up leaning his face in his hands, the toy falling to his lap as he held there over his desk. He was in such a state that he failed to realize one Princess Allura had managed to open the heavy door to his office.

The little girl was teary-eyed still, her nose and cheeks reddened. Her curls bounced around her as she flitted toward his desk, swallowing hard. “Emperor Zarkon?” she called, her sweet voice wavering.

He did not pull his hands away from his face, but he forced himself to respond. “Yes, little one?”

She awkwardly held something in her hand, her face in a twist. “I don’t want to tell father,” she said. “But this was the boy’s.”

And she opened her hand to reveal long, straight strands of hair.

Zarkon moved his fingers from his eyes, blearily glancing down. And then his elfin ears flicked back at the sight, his plated nose lifting in dark curiosity—

—and panic. “How did you obtain this?” he demanded softly, turning to hold out his large palms.

Allura bit her lip, carefully depositing the strands into Zarkon’s hands, which were quite a deal larger than even her face. Her hands were tiny against his. “I brushed his hair with my comb,” she whispered softly. “And Galrans like to smell things. Do you smell him? Does this mean you’ll believe me—that he was real?”

The white hair in Zarkon’s hand was lifeless and crumpled. But beneath the scent of Allura, it bore the inalienable scent of one Crown Prince Lotor of the Galra Empire. His breath caught hard in his chest.

He tightened his fingers around the hair, cradling them. His hand shook, his eyes watering hard with tears.

Ghosts did not leave physical pieces of themselves behind.

The little girl before him awkwardly placed her hand over his, careful of his claws. She patted his hard skin, saying softly, “I miss him too.”

Zarkon’s red eyes flickered to her, his handsome face aging thousands of years at once. He shakily moved to pat Allura’s cheek, and he whispered, voice rough, “You have given me great hope, daughter of Alfor. I believe you now, that he is real.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope everyone is staying healthy and safe in these wild times of 2020. With coronavirus and flu knocking at the door, and me having to quarantine myself per the city outbreak, I'm hoping to dedicate more time to writing and uploading Lotura content. Please let me know if you'd like to see more of this story! Thank you for reading!


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to the following awesome people for reviewing last time: KairaB, LunarMagnolia, Isako, Wallflwr97, bat, Sukiya62, and asennnaa! I really appreciate it! 
> 
> KairaB: Thank you for your very kind review and for your well-wishes! I hope you stay safe and healthy too! 
> 
> LunarMagnolia: Bless you for jumping onto this wild rollercoaster! As always, I appreciate your support and reviews! 
> 
> Isako: Oh dear, I hope your tears have dried by now! Thank you for your review! 
> 
> Wallflwr97: Ahhh I’m so glad you liked the “assabinated” detail, haha. Thank you for your kind words, and I hope you’re staying safe and healthy too! 
> 
> Bat: Oh good, I’m glad you’re still doing well! Trying to stay healthy here too! And thank you, I’m so happy you’re enjoying this story too! 
> 
> Sukiya62: Guh, thankie so much for your high praise! I’m so happy you like it! Thank you for taking a chance on this story! 
> 
> Asennnaa: Ahh bless all of your emotions, and thank you so much for reviewing! I really love smoltura too—it’s been so fun to write them! And I love writing this version of Zarkon because it haunts me that the real VLD Zarkon actually did love and want Lotor prior to being corrupted by quintessence. I would have loved to see him being an actual father. Thanks again!

Thirteen years passed before Princess Allura saw the boy Sincline again.

In that time, the princess endured wooden boards strapped to her back to ensure perfect posture, had been pushed into etiquette classes and forced to dance with many a sly noble looking to enhance his position. She’d stored away her play toys, switching them out for makeup and new dresses. Her slight form stretched up and filled out, until she was standing before a mirror, staring at herself as if she were a stranger.

Allura reached up to smooth the wrinkles on the bodice of her mourning dress, her pretty face twisting with pain. It was the same dress that she’d worn months ago for her father’s funeral, after he had died in battle to stop a hostile rebellion in the Numorian quadrant. She was nineteen now and worn, overwhelmed by the many demands of Altea, over which she’d become queen.

“What do you think?” she asked her pet mice, sighing as she turned around. “Am I magnanimous enough?”

Her pets looked up at her black dress. One of them skittered across her long train of a skirt, sniffing at the velvet fabric. Another—the small one—squeaked.

Allura’s tired face softened. “Thank you, Chulatt.” She adjusted the long, angled sleeve once more, with a bit more gusto. “It’s very important that I represent our planet well, for father is no longer here to smooth over my mistakes.”

The mice squeaked at her.

She deflated a bit. “Yes, I do still have Zarkon and Honerva to cover for me, but you make it sound like something actually _will_ happen. Do you have any faith in me at all?”

They chittered at her.

The queen face-faulted and turned, dipping her fingers in the washing bowl to flick water at them. “I am a very good queen, thank you,” she retorted, sad voice straining with a mix of hilarity. “Why, the people love me. Or some do. I suppose some think me under the thumb of the Galran emperor.” She groaned, pressing her full lips together. “And others are demanding I wed immediately to ensure the continuity of the royal line. Is that not ridiculous?”

But her voice trailed off as she turned back to her own reflection, staring at the smooth curves of her body. She ran her hand across her stomach as she had seen Empress Honerva so often do, and she tried to imagine her belly swollen with a man’s child. Allura’s breath caught strangely, her hand falling from her flat stomach.

“Children guarantee nothing but sorrow,” she said, her voice drifting off.

Today, as it were, was the anniversary of Crown Prince Lotor’s assassination. The crowds that once gathered in support of Zarkon and Honerva grew ever thin year after year—the people tiring of the sorrow and growing far more interested in the national holiday off of work, to celebrate and drink on a day of rest. Allura suspected that only a handful of trusted advisors and sympathetic nobles would remain. Perhaps a few families who had lost children. Those who understood the fragility of life.

Allura swallowed hard, a ghost memory of a bruised-faced boy smiling at her. And then she turned away, grabbing onto her dark cloak.

_“You won’t get assabinated. I won’t let it happen.”_

_“You promise?”_

_“Yes.”_

The night of Crown Prince Lotor’s remembrances was always the same night she’d lost her first friend from the planet Daibazaal—the little boy that Zarkon swore up and down had to be his murdered son.

As the years had passed, and as Zarkon and Honerva helplessly searched the empire without finding the boy, the little, frail light of hope had extinguished in their eyes, in fear that he had truly been a ghost or had died a second death. The only joy in them was whenever Allura returned to visit—which had become quite often with the death of her father and her own tearful need for parental guidance and royal wisdom.

And so every year on the Day of the Crown Prince, Allura would stand beside them as the druids chanted in ancient Galran for the soul of Crown Prince Lotor to be at peace. The emperor and empress would hold hands before the dark vault that held their one-year-old son’s remains, and in the privacy of their halls, they would say that Allura’s Altean abilities gave her insight into the afterlife in ways they could not understood or duplicate.

It was easier that way, and far more comforting than for Zarkon and Honerva to believe they had failed their child a second time.

* * *

The great Fields of the Emperors lay well beyond the castle, requiring a caravan to and from the site, which expanded in all directions in a labyrinth of vaults, spiraling out from the First Emperor and his family. The vault of the little Crown Prince Lotor rested on the outer edge of the field beside a larger structure that would one day hold Emperor Zarkon and Honerva—already carved with their likeness.

Lotor’s resting place, though, was skewed like the vaults of other non-ruling family members. It was a little leaf jutting out from the greater vine of the Emperors, signifying that he had never ruled.

Queen Allura stood before the vault, which was carved from Daibazaalan red stone. She reached out with her gloved hands to trace the intricate carvings of a baby’s face. The only representation of the Prince available to the public. In ways, the carving reminded her of the little boy she’d saved from the guards. But this carved child looked similar to many other infants she’d seen—all scrunched and angelic with chubby cheeks.

Some rich nobles whispered that the carving was an intentional coverup of the half-breed prince’s true monstrosities. For in their fear for their son, the emperor and empress had allowed few to see him, knowing of the prejudices against him.

But Allura knew there had been nothing monstrous about the boy she’d met.

“Your hair was curlier when you were little,” she whispered, a sad twitch upon her lips. “How strange to know that your waves straightened out as you aged. Or is this simply the carver’s artistic license with you, I wonder?”

The stone infant was as silent as the rest of the field, the wind sweeping through to clank wooden talismans that warded off dark spirits. Some said this section of the field carried the darkest energy—that the bones of the prince were unsettled from his violent death.

Her lithe fingers slid from the baby’s chubby cheek. “I hope you _do_ rest here,” she confessed. “For if you do not, then that likely means you have died elsewhere, without anyone to care for your resting place.”

 _“He died,”_ the boy’s high voice echoed in her mind with a grim pain _. “Because he was a half-breed. All half-breeds die.”_

Queen Allura’s blue and purple eyes sudden burned, and she felt tears blur her vision of the vault, still seeing that emaciated hand of the little boy picking out a half-eaten Vulo leg from a trash receptacle. “Until next year,” she whispered, pulling away from the vault. “Sleep well, little one. Perhaps…my father carries you on his shoulders in the heavens.”

She turned away, tiredly eyeing her royal transport carriage in the distance, where two Galran soldiers and two Altean soldiers awaited her. Zarkon and Honerva had already left, unable to stand for long before the bones of their murdered son.

“Stop crying,” Allura chided herself, voice shaking. The long train of her dress swept with her, riling up the red dirt and slipping against the yellow grasses. She sniffed, then raised her chin in a royal way, masking the emotion on her face as she glided back to the transport.

The guards bowed and opened the carriage door for her.

It was an ornate transport, with the royal colors of red and gold. She sat in it with all of her black yards of fabric, and the instant the door shut, she began to cry, her heart cracking open in want for her father’s arms to comfort her, in want for Honerva to play with her hair, in want for Zarkon’s calming voice, and in want for the little boy who had nuzzled his nose against her neck. The boy named Sincline had not realized at the time that such was a sign of deep affection between Galran mates or family.

He’d thought her family, instinctively.

Allura tried to blink away her tears, miserably staring out the window as the Galran landscape blurred by.

“Would you care,” she whispered aimlessly to the air, voice shaking, “if I marry a prince to appease my people? And move on instead of being so—so very trapped by the past?” She looked down at her muddy slippers. “I could play with the little ones, as I once played with you. And I could sew their ripped clothes and fight off ogres with sticks. And feed them Vulo.”

There was no answer.

But Allura felt the hair on the nape of her neck suddenly stand on end as she felt the transport jerk strangely, and she cried out in surprise, grabbing for the handrails. Her dark veil slipped slightly from her hair, unsettling her crown.

And then—

The transport suddenly careened hard, decelerating backwards, and the queen slammed back in her seat, then forward, her neck whipping in a wave of curls. She held on tight to the handrail, breathing hard as the sound of cries raised up from outside the transport.

Bandits.

Fear bled through her as she froze. In all of her nineteen years, she’d never seen bandits once or feared them. But she’d always had her father with her, and he was imposing with a sword—and usually, the whole caravan left along with the emperor.

Queen Allura’s eyes widened as she patted her dress for her daggers or a small sword, realizing that she’d left it back in her guest room. “Quiznak,” she breathed, quickly blinking tears out of her eyes. Adrenaline began to pump through her veins, her fright tensing her muscles.

And then the doors to the transport slammed open, and Galran bandits reached for her, their forms hulking and large like that of Zarkon’s. Their armor was splattered with the blood of her guards.

Her face tightened as she raised her hands, calling forth her latent alchemical abilities. From beneath her black gloves, sharp Galran claws protracted, her hand glimmering purple with her shapeshifting abilities. She swiped her hand at the face of the Galran man, her eyes narrowing in desperation.

The first man fell back with a garbled cry as his purple face twisted, Allura’s claws slicing his cheek.

But others were prepared, grabbing onto her arms and forcibly dragging her out. Her slippered feet tangled in the fabric of her dress, and she cried out, trying to struggle against their Galran strength with such a great disadvantage.

She felt one pull off the remains of her veil, taking with it her golden crown and its embedded gem.

Her ears rang. She barely heard the cries of the men as they dragged her forward, stumbling her straight into the red dirt.

Allura flailed, her arm crunching painfully on the dirt as she tried to catch herself. She swallowed back a whimper in her throat as she turned, only to see a blaster pointed at her forehead.

“Queen Allura of Altea,” said the bandit, his yellow eyes narrowed with barely withheld distaste. “Beloved of Emperor Zarkon and Empress Honerva. Time we had a little chat about the pretty gems you wear while the rest of us _starve_.”

She breathed out shakily, her brilliant eyes wide as she stared at the barrel of the blaster. She was surrounded, with no other caravans around. The area was hidden by trees and bushes. “This is most unusual procedure for requesting an audience,” she eventually said, voice wavering.

The bandit tilted his head. And then he swung his blaster, striking her hard on the temple.

Allura’s neck snapped back, and she saw stars as her vision swung. So disoriented was she that she did not feel her shoulders hit the dirt. She lay there, simply breathing, her one hand de-transforming, her claws retracting to blunt Altean fingernails.

She gasped for air, her mind fragmenting.

And it was in the midst of her own daze that she caught the blurry sight of an arrow striking into the neck of the bandit above her.

The last she heard was the cry of the bandits as they turned their attention to a lone man dropping down from the trees, swinging a silver blade, his white hair billowing from purple temples.

* * *

Queen Allura wavered in and out of unconsciousness, her body relaxing against the dirt in exhaustion, her curls a tumble around her face and shoulders. Time sped up and slowed down. Her temple bled sluggishly from the bandit’s strike, and she felt so terribly confused.

She heard clashes of swords and sharp snarls, and the sickening thud of bodies—one by one.

Until only one man remained.

In the resulting silence, a sword drove into the dirt with a male sigh that was slightly breathless. And then there were soft footsteps toward her. Arrows clanked within the quiver strapped to his back.

The mysterious man kneeled before her, his sharp armor gleaming dark in the sunlight. It blinded her as his warm, calloused palm gently turned her chin, his claws prickling lightly against her cheek.

Galran.

Queen Allura stared up at him, her eyes dilated and blurry. She caught only the sight of purple skin and white hair—and glowing, yellow sclerae. But she did not feel fear, for his touch was gentle as he moved to brush her curls away from her face, even more careful as he tried to slide curls away from the cut on her temple.

His breath puffed against her raggedly, but he said nothing as he slid his hand beneath her neck, moving to raise her up from the dirt.

She was limp in his arms, her gaze still bleary as she stared up. She felt his long hair tickle her chin.

And then she felt him pull her close, his breath hitching as he protectively held her, cradling her spine as he checked her over for other injuries. Allura was so entirely disoriented and exhausted that she remained in his arms without complaint, her worn cheek leaning against his dark gray and blue armor.

His voice wrapped around her then, the tone like a smooth velvet. “Do not fear, Queen Allura.” His long, muscled arms slipped beneath her, raising her up in his arms like a bride. The heavy material of her train billowed black over his arm, fluttering in the wind. “Your eyes are dilated with a concussion. Stay awake to the sound of my voice, and you will suffer no ill effects.”

The sound of the man’s voice was a beautiful lull. She inhaled lightly against his chest, blinking again and again. “My head hurts,” she whispered.

His voice carried a wry humor and a fondness. “You took quite the hit, princess. Impressive for a full-Altean, that you did not lose consciousness.”

_Princess._

No one had called her that in nearly a year.

Her blue and purple eyes narrowed, then squeezed shut. She remained mostly limp in the strange warrior’s arms as he carried her away from the bloodshed around the transport.

“I fear,” the man murmured, “I do not have your healing abilities. But there is a stream that runs along this road, and we should clean your cut to avoid infection.”

It was then that Queen Allura realized that the man spoke to her as if he knew her.

She blearily asked, “Have we met, good sir?”

His sharp chin brushed against the top of her curls as he carried her. “Yes. And you saved me from great harm once. I have never forgotten it.”

Through the pain of her headache and the disorientation of her thoughts, Allura struggled to remember what he could possibly mean. And then she smelled it. That faint, unique scent that marked her strange savior undeniably as the boy who had called himself Sincline.

Her heart skipped a beat. 

* * *

The Galran man gently set her down by the banks of the stream, leaning her back against a small tree trunk. Queen Allura’s face twisted in pain at the movement, and she whimpered, her lithe fingers grabbing on tight to the vambrace over his arm. “Do n-not go,” she pleaded through the pounding of her head. She feared if she did not hold onto him, that he would disappear once more in a flicker of white.

Her friend—her childhood friend—

Her aching mind surged with images of his small hands reaching for a Vulo leg from the trash—

“I will not leave you,” he murmured. And he gently tilted her head to the side, his glowing eyes narrowing upon the cut on her face, which had dripped blood down her cheek and jaw. He pulled away, ripping at the material of his long cape. He dipped the fabric into the clear stream and then dabbed at Allura’s temple.

The cold water stung. Her nose wrinkled, and her lips tensed with a shaky inhale. She tried to focus on the man’s face, which was increasingly less blurry. The boy she’d known in childhood had strengthened greatly, his features sharp and handsome.

“Are you real?” she begged, voice breaking. “Sincline, is it you?”

The man’s lips quirked, though he did not meet her eyes, for he was focused on addressing her wounds. “Ah. So you _do_ remember me, then.”

“You left,” she accused shakily, her eyes watering with tears. Her heart ached at the sight of him. She did not want to let go of him, in fear that he was truly a ghost. “For th-thirteen years.”

Those blue eyes of his—so alien, and yet so much like Zarkon’s—flickered from her temple to match her gaze. They were still expressive and soft, just as when he had been a boy. His handsome face pulled in pain. “I had to.”

“Why?” she demanded, voice wavering. “Did I—? Did I scare you?”

He continued to dab at her temple, inspecting the gash and occasionally applying pressure where it had not yet clotted. Some of her white curls ran pink from it. “Yes.” He pressed his lips together, then added, voice straining, “I did not want you to get…assabinated on my behalf.”

The word fell from his clunky in a clunky, humorous way.

It made Allura’s eyes burn, and her lips pulled back in a sob. She tightened her fingers around his free vambrace. Words failed her.

The Galran man managed a weak smile, his fangs no longer milk fangs, but long and sharp, glimmering in the light. They did not frighten her. “This world is not kind to Sinclines like me,” he said softly, his voice calm and smooth with a peace that Allura struggled to understand. “Or to those who advocate for half-breeds.” He dabbed again at her temple. “I was endangering you.”

Tears slipped down her face. “I d-don’t understand,” she whispered. “I thought you’d died. Or I—I’d dreamed you up. How could you leave like that, even if you had fears?”

Lotor’s elegant, white brows knitted together. He lowered the fabric swatch from her temple, sighing. “I wanted to be with you.” He dunked the scrunched fabric into the stream to wash it of her blood, and then he wrung it out before scrubbing gently at her cheek, revealing her pink Altean mark beneath crusting blood. “But others found me in the market, and I was being hunted. I ran far to escape them.” His face tightened, his elfin ears flicking back. “By the time I felt safe to return, soldiers were everywhere in the city. And I realized those hunting me could yet discover your connection to me and cause you significant grief.”

The queen stared at her childhood friend, shakily moving to reach up. She touched his warm, angled cheek, in awe of him. She blinked slowly with her concussion, her eyes still blurring. “Those soldiers were looking for _you_ ,” she whispered. “To bring you home to me.”

His armor boasted strange designs that were not of Daibazaal’s royal colors. A blue, upside-down star was grafted onto the front of his chest plate. He tilted his head. “I did find a home,” he murmured, voice raising weakly, “in a court.”

She vaguely recognized the insignia, lowering her hand to touch it on his chest. The star was the emblem of the infamous Court of Miracles—the dark kingdom in the slums of Daibazaal, where not even guards dared to roam. It was said that a false nobility called the Blades ruled it. Her fingers trembled as she traced the outline. “Is that how you obtained this armor?”

“Yes.” He pressed his lips together, searched the rising fear in her face. “Does it frighten you?”

It did. She raised her dilated, confused eyes to him, a thousand words on her tongue. Tears slipped down her cheek as her head pounded. “The Blades. You are a Blade.”

“It’s alright,” he murmured to her, blue eyes earnest. “The Court of Miracles is not as it seems.”

The Queen’s lips quivered. She closed her eyes, her hand slipping from his chest. “How did you become a Blade? I’ve—heard terrible stories. Cannibalism. Child slavery. So much death.” Her breath caught in her chest. “So much death.”

Lotor reached out to her, gently stroking her uninjured cheek with a rough, calloused thumb that suggested hard, manual labor and fighting. “Do not close your eyes. You cannot fall asleep with a concussion.”

She forced them open, in fear of what she saw. In fear that the kind boy she’d known was gone, and yet confused that she could still see him in the eyes of a Blade. She swallowed down emotion. “How—” she strangled out. “How did you know to save me?” The fear in her was rising. “How did you know I was here?” She began to cry again, helpless in her panic that her childhood friend was the bait for a much larger scheme. “Are you to be my kidnapper, to—to take me back to your Court and hold me for ransom, or—?"

The warrior stroked her cheek, shushing her softly. His eyes glanced about before he whispered, “I am not here in the name of the Blades. But I heard rumors in the Court of Miracles, that some desired to take riches from the visiting Queen Allura of Altea.” His lips twitched weakly. “Even your dress, I fear, contains enough golden thread to feed a thousand mouths.”

Allura searched his soft eyes, unable to understand the darkness that he lived in, her heart pulling in odd pain. “I tried to help,” she whispered in betrayal. “M-my father—we tried to _help_.”

“I know.” His voice was smooth and kind, like a lullaby. His hand caressed her cheek with a great softness. “But some grow ever desperate in these times.” He searched her eyes. “They will never harm you again. I will not let them.”

Her breath hitched. She reached for his hand. His long fingers automatically intertwined with her own, squeezing tight. “And the Blades—have they hurt you? Did they care for you? What is this Court of Miracles that you’ve come into, and—and how—?”

“—All will be made clear,” he promised her, holding her hand. His claws prickled against her, reminding her that he was a fully grown Galran now—a dangerous man. “For now, simply rest.”

The Queen blinked slowly again. “Are we still in danger?” she whispered.

His white brow quirked. “No. For I have passed judgment on your attackers, and no one else will dare to steal even a hair from your head.”

She hesitated. “Who are you to them that they would listen?”

And those full lips of his stretched, revealing those sharp fangs once more. “So much has happened since I saw you. So much, I have learned.” There was a dark, roguish delight in him as he leaned forward, clasping her hand between his. He carried himself with a far greater confidence than she remembered. “Are you sitting down?”

Queen Allura gave him a deadpan of a look as she rested against the tree. “Quite.”

His velvet voice dropped for her ears alone. “I am the living prince in the Court of Miracles. But in truth, I was once Prince Lotor of the Galra Empire.”

* * *

The man’s confession did not have quite the effect that he likely anticipated. Instead of shock, Queen Allura’s face pulled only with great sorrow.

She searched the eyes of the long-lost Prince Lotor, which were soft and alien. She shakily reached up, whispering, “I know.” Her breath hitched again. “That was _why_ Emperor Zarkon sent out guards. Your mother and father—all of us—we were looking for you. Because they pieced together who you were." 

His long, elfin ears flicked back with emotion. He pulled away, tilting his head. “I did not know the guards’ objective at that time,” he admitted. He waved his large hand. “They did not advertise that they were searching for an assassinated prince presenting as a vagrant. All I knew then was that guards meant death.” The joy in his eyes faltered. “And princess—even if they _had_ found me, and dragged me back to the castle to such a life, do you honestly think everyone would...accept a half-breed heir?”

She swallowed hard, knowing the answer was no. The Galrans were largely prejudiced against such people. Instead, she demanded softly, “How long have you known your true heritage?”

“…Five years or more,” he admitted. His gaze was earnest. “My supposed assassin was a Blade by the name of Dayak, disguised as a governess. But I was not the monster that people thought half-breeds to be.” He fell silent, then confessed, “Not many had seen the crown prince, so she took me to an orphanage far from the royal city." He pressed his lips together, caught in a mix of humor and something almost like familial appreciation. "Dayak re-discovered me years later—after I had run from you, in fact. She brought me home with her to the Court.”

Allura moved to hold her head, which was still pounding. Her face twisted, and her voice broke with incredulity. “And you—you just _followed_ this woman who was to be your murderer?”

His lips quirked with an awkward shame. “She offered me Vulo. And I was very hungry, as always.” He tucked a lock of his white hair behind his ear, his elegant brows knitting together. “She dueled the other Blades for my right to enter the Court, even though I was a half-breed. All I have now is because of her.”

The queen fell silent for a time. She dared to reach out to Lotor’s strong cheek, her heart breaking. “You are the rightful prince of this empire,” she whispered. “This Dayak stole that from you.”

Lotor’s voice hardened. “She and the Blades trained me after they discovered that I had survived on my own, and that I could think and fight. Because of her, I am the ruler of the _entire_ criminal underground of the Galra Empire.” He leaned forward, his face tight. “The youngest ruler they’ve ever accepted, but by far the most effective.”

Her fingers slipped from him, catching the strands of his hair in awe that she had once brushed mud from it. This Lotor before her was clean and smelled of pines, and there was great vision in his gaze. Purpose. “I’m not certain you should be proud of this title,” she said fearfully. “The Court of Miracles is said to be a dark place. Tell me, Lotor, do they truly eat children there? Do you sit on some false throne and watch them murder each other for food?”

Lotor’s lips stretched. “No, princess. My network is far superior to the one before it—and those who disobey, like the bandits who sought to steal your jewels, are quickly dispatched.” His eyes softened. “You speak of the Court as if it were a band of monsters. But in truth, they are mothers and fathers desperate to give their children a better life. Some are…more difficult to rein in, when times are hard.”

It felt silent between them for some time. He glanced over her temple, eyeing it critically before placing the wet cloth back upon her slowly oozing cut. “And you’re still bleeding.”

Allura’s eyes burned. Her mind was so full of questions, she barely even felt the sting of pain from her temple. Words began to spill from her mouth. “I don’t understand. Once you _knew_ , you could have come home. You didn’t—y-you didn’t have to stay in that dark place. Or become its ruler. I don’t remember you wanting to be a criminal. I remember you wanting a mother and father.”

His voice caught. “I made the best decision I could.” He pulled the cloth away from her temple, his voice raising with a passion. “If I had returned to that castle and the title of Crown Prince, I would have been hidden, and you know it. Furthermore, the royal family doesn’t have power to effect real change. Like this—I’ve made the streets so that no one beats any half-breed without severe consequence.” The emotion in him rose to such an extent that Allura could see his eyes mist. “I’ve saved people like me. And I’ve stolen, yes, but from rich vassals who would otherwise waste those resources on an expensive dress or ridiculous feast.”

Something about his words stung her. She pressed her lips together, her dark cheeks flaming as she looked down at her opulent black and gold skirts.

Lotor dared to lift her chin with his clawed finger. “I can do things in the name of justice,” he murmured, “that a royal decree cannot.”

“By going outside the law?” she whispered. “Living in the upside down?”

He retorted, voice straining, “The emperor gives speeches about justice and rights, and then his vassals and advisors create loop-holes in law to squander help-funds on themselves, and to justify stripping the lower classes of every dignity.” He bit his lip, his brow wrinkling. “Princess, like this, I am capable of using the underground to dismantle the corruption standing in the way of good law.” He tilted his head. “The royal court does not fear the emperor, who is strictly by-the-books. But they fear _me_ , and the Court.” 

The admission fell from his lips in a way that seemed to echo in Allura’s mind.

Lotor pulled away, face tight. “Tell me I have not frightened you in turn.”

She did not respond for a time, looking down at her dress with the golden thread that could feed thousands. She swallowed hard, her dilated eyes blinking back tears. “Truly, I _am_ frightened by your Court, and the terrible reports I’ve heard of their actions. I’m quite frightened that your justice might not be any better than these nobles you despise. I don't...know who you are like this." 

The Galran man seemed to deflate in a way, the light in his eyes dampening as his misty eyes searched hers. He hedged, voice roughening, "The nobles dragged me out as a boy and had me beaten for entertainment while attending the market to buy bread.” His tongue almost seemed to stumble over itself. “They—they kill servants who cannot meet quotas. They rape those in the slave class, even though the emperor passed laws against such. And no one can stop them, for _they_ are supposed to be the law enforcement in this land. That is why the Blade was formed in the first place. The Court of Miracles exists because it is the only safe haven that some have.”

Allura blinked, and tears slid down her face.

Lotor reached for her hand, desperate. “Please, Queen Allura.” He was using her true title now—he was serious. “You’ve always sought to help the poor. Even now, Altea is the emperor’s largest benefactor of imported goods and funds. Surely you can understand my words—that I never want anyone to endure what I did as a child. And that is why I am what I am. Because it’s not _about me_ anymore. I was born to be a prince." His voice broke, hard. "I am supposed to help my people." 

And there he was. Hiding behind that veneer of power and prestige was the scared, little boy with the bruised face, holding his broken ribs. In that tick, the armor around Lotor faded, and she could recall him laying beside her in her bed, crying because her pillow was so soft, and her hugs were so warm, and it felt so good to have a full belly—

He was scarred by those things, she knew. His eyes were earnest and true. 

The queen’s eyes roved over his insignia. She shakily pressed her hand over it, where his heart thumped beneath the warm metal.

And she closed her eyes, her white brows knitting together. She was feeling the deep energy within him through her latent alchemical abilities. He felt like a burning star compared to the wavering flame he'd been as a child. Her thumb shakily stroked the armor over his heart, her lips quivering. “I want to believe you, that your crusade is just and that you are truly helping your people." 

His large, Galran hand clasped over hers gently. “Then come with me,” he tempted. “See the Court of Miracles for yourself, and heal from your wound in my safe haven, just as you once offered your haven to me. I promise, no harm will come to you.”

Queen Allura opened her eyes and gazed at him blearily.

He leaned forward, his lips stretching with a small mischief. “Come on. You know you’re curious. You would be the first true royal besides myself allowed to enter.” His eyes narrowed playfully. "And I know how much you enjoy a little mischief." 

She sniffled, then eventually admitted, “I do like mischief. But the emperor and empress will undoubtably send hoards of guards to find me, once they realize my transport was attacked by bandits. I would endanger you." 

Those blue eyes of his were so expressive, and yet so very calculating. “Hn. Then with your permission, princess, what if I left a letter ransoming your safe return for a hundred barrels of grain? The royal family will not attack if given an alternative ensuring your life. It could be a mutually beneficial move for the poor as well. The Unlath province has been struck with drought, and the nobles have withheld their storages from the poor." 

She paused, her mind racing. Even despite her raging headache, she managed a huff of indignation. Somehow, despite the very real danger they were both in, it rather felt like they were making up their own fairytales again. Although usually, her fairytales involved her wearing armor and slaying dragons and saving a poor boy caught in its clutches. “I’m worth *only* a hundred barrels? I’m a queen now, you know.”

“Five hundred, then,” he murmured, his fangs glinting brightly in an draconic way. “Though you are worth far more to me than that.”

The queen couldn’t help it. Lotor's smile was infectious, as it always had been. Her own lips began to twitch up despite the lingering pain in her head. “…That strike on the head has clouded my reason. Truly, I must be mad to agree to this.” 

And a delight came over him. Lotor suddenly moved toward her, pressing a warm kiss to her forehead in deep gratefulness, as he had once done as a child. “The Court will adore you for it. As will the poor of Unlath." 

Queen Allura closed her eyes, feeling his warm lips against her—knowing that they were no longer children, and that she was placing her life in his hands. But she felt no fear in that tick. For she was in the arms of the most dangerous man in the empire.

And she’d tamed him to her long ago.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Currently in quarantine at the moment to follow guidelines to flatten the curve. It's been wild because all the stress of real life has really taken a toll on my ability to engage in writing or other creative things. But I also realize I might need to just unplug from constant coronavirus updates so that it can stop sucking the life out of me, haha. Updating this is a first attempt to get my mind back on track. So I hope everyone else out there is staying healthy, both physically and mentally. 
> 
> I started writing this section a while ago, and it was odd because I totally expected to write more smoltura, but something felt right to flash forward in time at this point. Please let me know if you'd like to see more of this story! Thank you!


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to the following for reviewing last time: LunarMagnolia, MalevoLiss (MissLissa1), Cecilily, KairaB, bat, and asennnaa! 
> 
> LunarMagnolia: Ahhh thankie dear! Your reviews are always a bright spot in my day, and I’m so happy you enjoy this crazy AU with its reimagined roles for everyone and discussions of justice, haha. Thanks again! 
> 
> MalevoLiss (MissLissa1): Thanks for your review!! You ask a really great question about Zonerva’s inability to overcome their poverty issue. I do think some extent is that they’ve just lost their connection to the real world, as you suggest—but also as Lotor mentions, their own nobles are working against them under their nose. So what programs they’ve tried, all that funding and assistance gets bungled up by the middle man trying to profit. I hope that helps answer it! Thank you again! 
> 
> Cecilily: Bless you for being a lotura fan! And yaaas omg I really love exploring a non-evil Zarkon and Honerva. I think VLD offered some opportunities that perhaps the franchise didn’t have before in that sense. If you think of the fairytale this reminds you of, I’d be curious to read it! I think I’ve taken inspiration from Robin Hood and Hunchback of Notre Dame at this point, but there may be some subconscious influences as well, haha. Thank you so much for reviewing! 
> 
> KairaB: Thank you for your very kind words! Yas, we’ve made it this far through shared quarantine, and we can make it still! And guh, I’m so happy you enjoy this iteration of Lotor! He’s so fun to write, and this upcoming chapter will definitely show the Court of Miracles! Also, yaaas to that Rapunzel reference in your reply to MalevoLiss! I get that vibe from them as well. Also, thank you for your video link you provided. It did help to inspire me to write some more today! I love Disney, haha. 
> 
> Bat: Thank you, dear! Trying to stay positive during these crazy times, and I’m excited to hear these stories can still be meaningful in some way, haha. Thank you again for reviewing! 
> 
> Asennnaa: Ahh thanks for your review!! I hope you’re doing well today too! And guh, yeah it does seem that Allura’s really suffered over the years, but now that she has the dark prince watching over her, maybe some quality adventure will return, haha. When I started writing this, I didn’t really know where it would go. This concept of a thief-prince Lotor just arose on its own, and I really became enamored with it, because I think it does speak to the more Machiavellian/Dark Knight tendencies of Lotor, and how he would prefer results over power or prestige anyway. And now I’m rambling, haha. Thanks again!

“My lord,” cried out a frightened guard, crashing to a kneel before the throne of the Emperor Zarkon. “I bring terrible news. Queen Allura—she has been kidnapped!”

The emperor glanced at the guard, his face tightening. “…What?”

He looked to Honerva, who sat at his side, her eyes still as bloodshot as his own from the annual mourning ceremony for their little son. His empress’s lithe fingers crunched into the armrests of her throne. Queen Allura of Altea was the closest person they had to a child, especially after the untimely death of Alfor.

And they’d already lost one child.

They were not going to lose another.

Zarkon stood from his throne, his long, red cape a flutter around him. “Who has kidnapped her?” he demanded, voice a sharp boom. “There were elite guards with her—how did this happen?”

The soldier gave him a weary, ashamed look. “We discovered her transport was ambushed on her return from the Valley of Emperors. Her guards were overtaken by bandits, but…the bandits were killed as well by a third party.” He pulled out a small letter, which was mottled paper tightly folded with black string. “This was sent to the soldier garrison by a street rat messenger.”

The emperor’s red eyes narrowed upon the letter, and he snatched it from the soldier’s hand in worry. He sliced the black string with his claw, forcing open the letter.

.

_The safe return of Queen Allura of Altea in exchange for 500 barrels of grain, to be placed at the gate of the Court of the Miracles within the next quintant. The barrels will be transferred by ten soldiers or less. Queen Allura will be released without harm if you comply._

_– The Prince_

.

Zarkon stared at the rich script, which was slanted left. “This is him,” he whispered. A fury suddenly tightened every muscle in his jaw, and he clenched the letter so tight that it ripped in his hands. “That _bandit_ who dares to give himself a title of honor.”

Honerva stood from her throne, her aged face tight. “She has been taken to the Court of Miracles, then? My love, can we storm it and tear it down, once for all?”

“Not without risking Allura’s life,” he said, voice straining. He held the ripped shreds of paper in loss, his fury and panic rising. “This Prince of the Court of Miracles is known for his great hatred of the royal class. If I deploy forces to that slum, he will certainly kill her in revenge. At it is, his demand is for food alone—not weapons or power.” He swallowed hard, then turned to the kneeling soldier. “I will meet the demand. Procure 500 barrels from the storages, and take eight other men with you to the gates. I would have Allura returned by daylight.”

The soldier sputtered. “Great emperor, but if we just give in—what will they do next?”

“It does not matter,” Zarkon retorted, voice sharp. “Allura is our greatest ally and champion of the poor. Her death would send the galaxy into chaos and confirm what others believe of our people. So we will comply for now. This _prince_ cuts off his own nose to spite his face with this, and I will have him know it the instant Allura is safe with us again.”

The soldier looked up, nodding slowly. “Yes, my lord. I will carry out your will. Vrepit sa.” And then he turned, quickly moving to bark orders at other guards in the hall.

Zarkon released the ripped letter, his long fingers trembling. His breath hitched.

Honerva moved forward, reaching out to clasp his hand.

He squeezed her hand back, swallowing down great emotion of fear. “What are the odds that he will not harm her in any way?”

“Allura is very kind,” Honerva said softly, voice wavering. “And convincing. She has spoken on behalf of our poor—why would he slay her?”

The emperor’s handsome face pulled in great pain. “This Court is comprised of assassins and thieves with no honor. And Allura’s beauty and wealth is vastly coveted. Perhaps she may return alive, but I fear to know…in what state.”

“The letter said if we complied, no harm would come to her,” the empress pressed. “Surely, if they receive the barrels, he will follow his word. You could decimate the whole court with an army if not. He must understand that.”

“He _will_ understand my might after this,” Zarkon snapped. There was a dark, protective edge creeping into his voice. “If he displaces even a hair on her head, I will personally hunt him down and hang his body from the castle gates.”

* * *

Meanwhile, the wayward Prince Lotor of the Court of Miracles carried a dazed Queen Allura of Altea through the underground tunnels into the city. His arms were strong and protective, cradling her to his chest. Her long train of a skirt still slipped against the floor—a great flow of fabric that rustled softly with each step. “The previous king began this project,” he murmured, his voice a soft echo off the dirt walls. “And we completed initial construction over a year ago. But I have hopes of expanding the tunnels all across the entire region.”

Allura was tired from her head injury and the aftermath of adrenaline. She leaned her temple against his broad shoulder, closing her eyes. “Would that not endanger your strange court?”

“Ah, but that is the secret. No tunnel connects to another. One must have knowledge of the system itself, order to trace it back. And no tunnel fully connects to the inside of the Court, either.”

Lotor’s voice was a smooth, deep wave to listen to. It calmed Allura’s headache as she rested in his arms. She murmured, her full lips twitching up, “How very clever. I’m certain the emperor would be quite upset to know you truly _do_ run the ground beneath his feet.”

He huffed in amusement. “May I assume, princess, that you will keep such developments a secret?”

“It depends,” she retorted sleepily. “If I like where it leads, perhaps.” And then she raised her hand to gently press her cut temple, wincing. Her fingertips began to glow a soft blue. “Though for your sake and mine, I think it better if I don’t know where we’re going. I may try to heal my wound. It will…tire me greatly.”

Lotor looked down, the glow catching his eye. “I promise you are always safe with me." 

And then he felt it, the instant her power began to activate. He watched as Allura healed herself of her energy, her dark skin knitting up as if she’d never been injured at all, the remaining crust of blood upon her face slipping away.

“How jealous I am of you for such power,” he mourned.

Allura’s lips twitched tiredly as she lowered her hand, relaxing even more into his arms. Her eyes closed tiredly. “Head wounds are always so intricate,” she said, daring even to yawn against him in an unlady-like fashion. Her muddy, slippered feet wiggled a bit in the air as she got comfortable. “Now, don’t drop me.”

“I will not.”

“I’m very tired.”

“Then sleep, princess,” he murmured. “And I will wake you at the gates of the Court. So you can see my great empire.” There was a soft humor in him.

She sighed against his chest—a little huff of a laugh.

And then Lotor felt it again when the beautiful queen fell asleep in his arms, fully trusting him. He pressed his lips together as he walked, nuzzling his chin against the top of her white curls.

* * *

It was sometime later that Lotor’s movements began to quicken, enough to jostle Queen Allura awake. Her brilliant eyes blearily opened as she glanced out at the world. They were climbing steps now, from the back of a shoddy tavern in the slums of the capital city. His cloak was draped around her, hiding her curled hair and the elaborate gold thread on the bodice of her dress. “Almost there,” he murmured to her.

She tightened her fingers against his armor but said nothing, leaning her cheek against his shoulder. She could smell the tinge of alcohol in the air and the stench of unwashed bodies. It made her face twist. She knew then that they were no longer in the well-lit, guarded streets of the market or in the respectable housing editions—but in the dark slums.

The queen swallowed hard, for it had been some time since she had physically experienced and seen such poverty. From under Lotor’s cloak, her eyes shifted unsteadily. His arms were strong and warm and smelled of pine, but he seemed to be the only clean person for leagues.

The tavern was loud with rough laughter and gambling, with quintessence miners and construction workers gathered around after a long day’s work to waste away their sorrows. Some Galran women were mixed among them, their dresses low as they leaned back in the laps of men, arching, as Allura realized that their skirts were hiked up, and that she was actively watching—

Allura turned her face away, planting a hot cheek against Lotor’s arm, squeezing her eyes shut. “Oh, dear,” she whispered. “Is this your court?”

Lotor carried her through the tavern and down more steps, ever regal and stealthy, his form a dark shadow in the midst of the sunset crowds. “No. Only an entrance to it.”

And as they exited the tavern, suddenly, Queen Allura saw it.

The ancient district of the city once held quintessence manufacturing factories that had long gone out of business from crime. The multistory levels of the old, purple-stone factory loomed against the sunset, casting dark shadows. A barricade made of driftwood and rusted factory equipment encircled the large structure, limiting its entrances.

Allura’s heart skipped at the sight in a mix of fear and wonder. Aside from Lotor, she was the first true royal to ever set foot in the Court of Miracles. She’d only ever seen aerial views of it. But like this—she could see that the great towers stood over her as strong pillars, the broken-glass windows burning with lit torches and flickering with the shadows of hundreds. Galrans and people of several other races gathered together around large pits of fire within the safety of the gates, cooking and sewing.

She forgot to be afraid.

Her eyes widened at the cool air and murmurings of life, and the flashes of various colors of fabric being tossed from an old cart, with dirty children reaching out their hands, jumping up with cries for their favorite color. Men and women in Blade armor bent down from the cart to hand them the fabric.

Drapes, bedsheets, pillows—stolen goods from a latest raid upon a wicked noble.

Lotor’s voice was a soft vibration against the top of her head, sparking down the full of her spine. “Welcome to the Court of Miracles,” he murmured softly. “Shall I continue to carry you, or can you walk?”

The queen gently began to ease out of his arms, and he helped her down. Her eyes were bright and wide as his cloak slipped away from her form, revealing her white curls and the expensive gold thread upon her black dress. So awed was she by the great compound that she failed to see the eyes of all the poor suddenly turn to her and Lotor in awe. “What a strange and colorful world,” she whispered, voice trailing off.

Lotor grabbed for her hand, gently clasping it within his own as he moved before her, raising his chin. “People of the court,” he declared, his smooth voice carrying over the full of the life before him. “Your prince has returned. And with me, I have brought our great ally, Queen Allura of Altea. You _will_ bow for her as you would for me.” He turned his head to the soldiers on the cart, his white brow quirking. “And Ezor, no tricks on this night. Please.”

A sleek woman in tight Blade armor stood amidst the stolen goods, holding up a golden necklace. Her long head appendage—like a ponytail of colors jutting from the crown of her head—swung over her shoulder as she looked at Lotor, calling out innocently, “I haven’t played games for three quintants.”

And then the strange woman bowed, as did everyone else in the area, quieting as Lotor escorted Queen Allura to the entrance.

She gazed about in awe, her long train dragging in a soft rustle across dirt and old rugs. Despite its title as the empire’s heart of darkness, the Court of Miracles seemed to be a well-lit market of all things—like an art piece designed from the broken shatters of the world.

Lotor pulled back the large, white sheet that covered the front entrance. “My castle of ill-repute, your majesty.” His lips stretched in a roguish way, revealing glimmering fangs. And on the inside, the old factory walls were lined with colorful bedsheets, stitched with the knotted designs of children’s attempts to sew—and a few slashes from swords and holes from practice arrows. Clotheslines hung from the high rafters.

He pointed his clawed finger to the far end of the room, where great, metal barrels were melded to the wall, with what looked like water spouts hanging from the top. “Those containers are connected to funnels on the roof, which collect rain water—and during droughts, we can pump in water from the nearby lake. It is no great bath as in the emperor’s castle, but…you inspired me to pursue cleanliness. I wanted that for all who live here.”

The fallen prince pulled her along with something almost like a childish giddiness, as if he were overjoyed to finally share with her his strange cut of life. “And here, we train little ones in the arts of self-defense and slight of hand.”

Allura followed him wide-eyed, her full lips stretching in awe. “Slight of hand?”

Lotor turned around, raising up one of her gold earrings. “You should be careful here, princess,” he teased, twirling the warm earring between his long, clawed fingers. “You have many precious things.” But he handed it back to her, the little piece of jewelry dwarfed by the large expanse of his palm.

The queen huffed. She grabbed it from him, voice straining in a mix of surprise and hilarity. “How in the stars—? When did you steal that off of me?”

“When you walked into my castle and were gawking at the walls,” he whispered in delight.

Allura’s eyes met his, and she searched his gaze, in wonder. “So you are a Prince of Miracles and an engineer and a warrior and a leader of assassins—as well as a classic thief.”

The handsome Galran shrugged, but he seemed to preen under her awe, his chest puffing a bit. He ran his hand through his hair. “I was born for greatness,” he declared airily. In his element, he was terribly charismatic and charming, and it inspired a great smile upon Queen Allura’s face.

She retorted softly, “Of course you were born for great things.” She pulled away from him to set her earring back in, her pretty face twisting. “I truly do not understand how you stole this—I even had a back on it.”

The Prince of Miracles leaned forward, his armor glinting happily off the flickers of the torches that surrounded them. “You have your magic,” he murmured. “And I have mine.”

* * *

Lotor showed Allura his upside-down throne—a ritzy chair of gold that he’d nailed to the ceiling, while he usually held court beneath it, sitting atop a simple hay pallet on the floor, covered in a blanket with the insignia of the Blades. Around his spot, several other floor pillows rested in the silence, with a few homeless children napping atop them, wrapped in the blankets, their little Galran faces slack in utter peace.

And then Lotor guided Allura up the steps to his private rooms. She followed him happily, running her hand along finger-painted murals made by children, only to pause at the sound of a woman crying out.

As they passed the hallways into the second floor, which was sectioned off by hanging blankets, there was a woman laying on the floor, holding onto a very pregnant belly as others surrounded her, a man wiping her forehead of sweat and massaging her limbs.

Allura paused, her full lips dropping open at the sight. Her eyes widened.

Lotor gently encouraged her along, his large hand settling against the small of her back. “It’s not polite to stare.”

Her breath caught oddly in her chest as she turned her head back to the Galran woman. Her voice strained. “But that—that woman is having a baby. Right there. Right in the hall.”

It was the first time that a chagrin came over Lotor. “We have no medical facilities,” he admitted. His handsome face tightened. “Sickness and births and deaths—these are the difficulties of the Court. Our close quarters are curses and blessings all at once.”

Queen Allura still seemed haunted in a strange way, her curls slipping against her cheek as she still looked down the steps, the hall echoing with the sound of the woman gasping through another contraction, a man’s name a whimper on her lips.

A chill worked up Allura’s spine. She suddenly looked down, her brilliant eyes dazed. She’d never seen a woman actively in labor, with blood— “Will she and the baby be alright?”

“Most likely,” Lotor murmured comfortingly. “Galran women are very strong.”

Her own hand came to rest upon her lower abdomen, thinking of her people, who demanded she soon marry and produce an heir to secure the line of succession. She grew a bit pale with the thought of her body swelling and contracting. And then a terribly strange thought overcame her at the thought of her child being Lotor’s, with him kneeling beside her, wiping her forehead of sweat like the man had done for the woman.

The thought was not entirely unpleasant.

It inspired a strange reaction in her body that made her press her lips together, uncomfortable with the sudden spark of a mysterious burn between her legs. She shakily continued to climb the stairs, her long train still trailing behind her, her slippered footsteps a soft patter against the solid thud of Lotor’s combat boots. “Do you…have children? A family here?”

His voice was smooth. “No.” His face remained unreadable. “I would prefer not to bring a child into this world. For as much as I’ve tried to make things…better, it is always such a struggle.” And suddenly, there was a crack in his expression, and it made him seem haggard for a brief moment.

“A lover, then?” she asked softly.

Lotor turned to her, pausing on the steps. His handsome face was only inches from her own, shadowed slightly by the darkness of the hall, his blue eyes catching the torch lights and turning gold. He searched her eyes. “Why such interest?”

Queen Allura pressed her lips together and awkwardly stated, “Well, we’re both…grown now. There’s a lot I don’t know about you, and it’s rather normal to ask after one’s family.”

His lips twitched. This close, they were full and kissable. “I have a wife and twenty concubines.”

Her elfin ears flicked back in a surprised droop, and she strangled out, “…What?”

And then those lips stretched. “I jest, princess.” He turned away, his white hair flickering behind him as he took another step. “I have no lovers. But what of you? I have heard your name on the lips of many a nobleman. Many covet you.”

The queen hesitated, still somewhat unsettled. Her pretty face began to flush. “Oh, um. I’m not—I’ve no lovers. But I keep being told I should marry soon, and I suppose I’ll have to one of these quintants.”

His ear flicked. “You sound displeased by that.” They reached the top of the stairs, and he turned back to her, holding out his hand to escort her.

“I suppose I am,” she whispered, a small whine of miserable amusement catching in her voice. She grabbed onto his calloused hand, her fingers small against his own. “Perhaps I should ransom myself permanently and run away from the royal life, as you have.”

His blue eyes roved over her. “You would always be welcome in my court. But I think you care too much for Altea to abandon your duties.”

The queen gave him a wry look, turning to walk alongside him. “How do you know me so well after all this time.” The top floor was quieter, with fewer people asleep on pallets.

Lotor’s voice softened to a whisper. “Because you have not changed at all, princess.” And then he squeezed her hand in a comforting way.

She found the gesture to strike her heart in an unexpected way. Her eyes burned suddenly, and she squeezed his hand back in gratefulness. “I feel very much altered after all this time.”

“Hn. Your posture _is_ straighter,” he murmured with a wry amusement. “I suppose you look older.”

“You _suppose_?” she retorted dryly. “I’ll have you know I’m a full year older than you.”

He rolled his eyes in play. “That has certainly not changed about you.” But his face split with a merry smile, unable to contain his delight in her presence. Their intertwined hands swung lightly between them.

And then he stopped walking, and it was in that tick Allura realized why.

Before them was a sectioned-off room—likely once the spacious office quarters of the building managers. Torches lit the entrance, with an old blue blanket covering the threshold. Lotor paused, an earnestness overcoming. He turned to her, clasping her hand between his. “Princess,” he murmured suddenly. “I know that you have agreed to remain here for the night to ensure that my people may be fed. But I do not wish for you to feel uncomfortable. My room is your room, and yours alone on this night. I will sleep elsewhere.”

She glanced up at him, her face flushing slightly. To her surprise, she discovered a slight flush on his own lavender skin. It was in that tick she truly felt the differences between them—his great height and broad shoulders. Her short stature and smaller limbs. His maleness. Her femininity.

She swallowed down emotion, then dared to whisper, “Why such decorum? I don’t mind sharing a bed if you don’t.”

Those slit, alien eyes of his widened the slightest of fractions. He hesitated to respond, then eventually said, “It will…create certain rumors among others who live here. And I would have no part of you tarnished.”

“Oh, please,” she said, feeling more confident than she truly was, striding into his private room, which smelled of pine needles, dragging him behind her. “I’m not cruel enough to deprive you of your own room. And it’s not like we haven’t slept together before.”

The prince’s handsome face flushed fully then, his elfin ears streaking a deep purple at the tips as he allowed himself to be guided forward by her. His velvet voice strained with a laugh. “Ah, I’m beginning to wonder if you _do_ in fact boast a long line of lovers, to be so candid with a grown man.”

Allura turned to him. “On the contrary, you’re the only one I’ve ever shared a bed with.” Her full lips twitched weakly. “It’s rather old hat for us, I think.”

He stood there, his elegant brows raising up. As much as he desired to stamp it out, his dark heart began to pound. “Very well, Queen Allura. But you should know, I have changed in ways since we last shared a bed.”

“As have I,” she teased, her cheeks a bit flushed. “And, um, I hate to ask, but this dress is not designed for sleep with its corset bodice. It forces me to breathe up instead of out and makes laying flat rather suffocating.” She awkwardly motioned to the ties in the back. “Usually, I’ve a maid who unties me so I can breathe fully. Would you be willing to...help me?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Still in quarantine as we move through April; I hope you are all doing okay during this time. If you're still out here reading and reviewing or creating content, I want to thank you, because I know how mentally taxing even simple tasks or hobbies are in the midst of this global crisis. I've been alternating between having zero energy or else manically typing up a story or drabble, haha. It's such a weird time, guh. But I have really enjoyed writing a good!Zonerva who is still antagonistic to Lotor in some way (or is he antagonistic to them??), as well as just toying around with various iterations of Lotura, haha. 
> 
> Please let me know what you think in a review and if you'd like to see more of this story! Thank you!


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to the following awesome people for reviewing last time: 
> 
> LunarMagnolia: Ahhh omg bless your review! It made me giggle. “Will they pine for another 10 years?” Gosh, I hope not, haha. But I’m so glad you’re enjoying this whacky story! I do think Zonerva would like to protecc their boi, even if he IS a full-grown man, haha. Poor Zonerva. If only they know it was their son frustrating their reign, LOL. 
> 
> EtincelleDOR: Thank you for the review! And yaaas, rebel prince Lotor for the win! 
> 
> KairaB: Guh, thankie for your kind reviews always! Yeah, I’m really curious to explore Lotor’s mindset in this AU, since he’s so far removed from any imperial advantage. So having children in poverty, and being such a target himself, is something I think that weighs on him pretty heavily. Yaaas, I’m definitely playing around with various Disney vibes! A part of this story was inspired by the BBC Musketeers show too, which has an episode regarding the Court of Miracles and is a pretty good (adult-ish) show from s1-s2 if you ever need something else to watch, haha. Also, yay I’m so happy you enjoy these review replies! Thank you for your support! 
> 
> Wallflwr97: Oof, I absolutely love Aladdin, so it really means a lot that you’d find those connections with it, thank you! And bwahaha omg, yas. For real, pass around the popcorn because I wanna be there too when Lotor gets around to showing how he’s changed, lol. Thanks for your reviews and support! 
> 
> Dreams of Kalopsia: Oh wow, thank you so much for the detailed chapter-by-chapter reviews! I really appreciate it, and I’m so excited that you’re enjoying the story so far! Thanks for taking a chance on it! Haha, I love the concept of Lotor antagonizing his parents, so I couldn’t help but toss that wrench in somehow, LOL. And thank you for taking the time to read this story during these trying times too! 
> 
> Fish with Legs: Thank you for your kind review! :) 
> 
> Bat: Thank you for the very sweet review! I hope you had a Happy Easter too!
> 
> UltraFirelily: LOLL, each and every review was such a roller coaster of emotion, bless you dear. XD Always good to hear from you, and thank you so much for reading this one! Hopefully more Lotura banter coming soon!

The fallen Prince Lotor of the Court of Miracles found himself undressing Queen Allura of Altea—his face flushed as her own. His clawed fingers nimbly looped through the black silk of her corset ties, unraveling them. The silk itself was a material he so rarely had felt in his entire life, and it was warm with her body heat. He moved slowly to preserve the material from his sharp claws and to feel the pure decadence that was Queen Allura. To be close enough to smell her juniberry scent he remembered from childhood—and something else that marked her as a fertile woman. A round, earthiness...

His breath puffed against her dark neck, exposed from sweeping her curls out of his way. His velvet voice lifted in a mix of amusement and frustration. “Why do you wear such tight dresses?”

She stood there awkwardly, her Altean marks bright under the red of her blush, her hands clasped together before her. “Well,” she said primly, voice straining. “this is the style for women on Altea.”

“The style is to be uncomfortable while you sleep?”

The queen’s voice strangled. “No, it’s to—um—accentuate the female form.”

“Hn.” His breath slipped against her neck. His clawed fingers unraveled another tie of the silk strings. “Anyone could see you were female, regardless of your dress.”

Allura flushed. The heat rushing to her cheeks surged to the tips of her elfin ears, which burned with a glaring red. She awkwardly tried to raise her chin, staring off at a wall. “And I see you no longer are borrowing the robe of a princess,” she strangled out in an odd humor. “I do find you particularly male now, especially in your armor.”

That inspired a smile upon him, such that she could almost feel the stretch of his lips. “I should hope so.”

More of her corset came undone, his long fingers slipping through the strings. Allura began to grab hold to the top of her dress instinctively. Her throat tightened once more in a desperation. “And—ah—your room is quite nice,” she strangled out, her voice halted. In the corner of the room was a respectable hay pallet, covered in blankets and the brown fur hides of the Vulo beast. Torches hung on each of the four walls, with a few old candles and pillow tossed about. A purple and red blanket hung over the large window. “It’s lovely that you finally have something to call home.”

His breath puffed against her neck in amusement once more. He leaned forward, his lips but an inch from the shell of her elfin ear. “Shall I dress you in my own robes, to complete the circle of our interaction?”

Perhaps the Galran did not intend his words to be such a flirt, but the queen swallowed hard at that, suddenly imagining those large hands of his pulling down her dress, baring her to him—“Pray tell,” she retorted lightly, “do you in fact own a wardrobe, sir? For I do not see one here.”

Lotor chuckled. It was a soft huff of a sound—a small, deep bell that echoed off stone walls. “I fear,” he retaliated, his velvet voice raising in merriment, “I’ve not the options you do. But I may have a few extra tunics if you’d prefer to escape this torture device you’ve misidentified as a dress.”

His offer was genuine, for as playful as it was.

“Oh,” she retorted happily, “but then I would show my legs, and that would be most inappropriate.”

The man dared to press the pad of his finger to the middle of her bare back, which was exposed to his eye now as a result of loosening her corset. “Is this not already inappropriate, my queen?”

Allura inhaled sharply. She pulled away then, her eyes wide as she turned to him, holding onto her disheveled dress. The sleeves and collar of it was loose now, held up over her chest by her hands alone. She looked up at him, face flushed. “I, um...” She swallowed hard, then nervously giggled. “Yes, it is.”

Lotor stepped back, his expression still flushed, but his eyes danced merrily. He turned away, his white hair a graceful twist about him. His Blade armor glimmered with dangerous edges in the candlelight. “I shall find you a sleeping dress, then.”

The queen stood there in the private room of the prince, still holding up her dress, breath tight despite the loosening of the corset. “You will?”

The man paused at the doorway, turning around briefly. His eyes glowed in the darkness like that of a predator animal—an effect from his yellow Galran sclerae. But there was still something bright in his gaze. “I cannot have you holding your clothes like that for the rest of the evening. You will inevitably forget that only your hands hold up your collar, and where then would your modesty be?”

There was a beat of silence between them.

And Allura, for all the danger around her and the dark reputation of the Court of Miracles, began to huff in amusement. “But I have nothing to offer for a new dress.”

He quirked a white brow. “On the contrary, Queen Allura.” He waved a large hand to her royal dress. “Your golden threads may yet feed a thousand mouths.”

* * *

And that was how Allura found herself soon undressing in the private quarters of the mysterious Prince of the Court of Miracles, somewhat apprehensively watching the doorway that was only partially blocked by the doorway’s hanging blanket. She could see Lotor’s armored leg and back as the blanket fluttered in the slight draft of the building.

Lotor was so very strong and tall nowadays—

She flushed as she lowered her black dress, baring herself to the small room. Her white curls slipped down her shoulders. She reached for the crumpled material on the floor beside her, her fingers slightly shaking with adrenaline. “Where did you procure this dress?” she called to him. It was a patchwork design, of dark brown and swatches of white and pink.

There was a pause in time. “I am not certain you wish to know its origin,” he called to her.

“Oh, do tell me. I am not stealing it from someone, am I?”

He leaned his strong back against the wall, his white hair flickering in the draft of the building. “Not quite. My people labor hard for food, and so clothes wear out quickly. We’ve a guild of individuals who sew all day from the scraps of things we…obtain from the nobles.”

Allura ran her nimble fingers over the patchwork. Some of the squares were thinner or thicker than others—it felt like the dress were made out of white drapes, brown food-cloth bags, and…?

Her lips quirked.

A rough, pink tapestry that once had clouds on it.

The more she stared at the dress, the more beautiful it became to her, such that she stroked the uneven stitching as if it were glass. “It’s rather pretty,” she whispered, more to herself than to Lotor.

Lotor’s sharp ear flicked. He admitted hesitantly, “I chose it from the pile, thinking…it had your colors.”

The queen wiggled her way into it, a bright smile lighting up her face. “So you _do_ remember that pink is my favorite color.”

She saw his head tilt, his white hair curling at the ends against his armor. “Everything you owned was pink. It is strange to see you wearing black.”

Her smile faltered slightly. She looked down, awkwardly pulling the front over her chest and slipping her arms through the short sleeves. “Yes, well. Today was a day of mourning. For you, actually.”

There was a pause. His velvet voice strained. “I am aware.”

Queen Allura’s softened as she stood there, holding the dress up by the collar. Her eyes roved over the sharp armor that gleamed down Lotor’s back. The more she stared at him, the more that tears rose to her eyes. He was so strong and healthy—full of life. “Have you seen them? Your parents, standing at that vault of yours, year after year?”

“…Yes.”

“And does that not move your heart?” she pleaded. “To inspire you to appear to them, to let them know that their beloved child did not die such a violent death?”

The man turned around then. His eyes carried a storm of uncomfortable emotions as he searched her. And then he quickly turned away. “Apologies—I forgot you were still dressing.” He bit his lip, his sharp cheeks flushing. “Though you…appear to still need help.”

Allura stepped forward. The dress hung from her with the fabric loops in the back still undone. Then she hesitated, pressing her lips together. “If you don’t mind,” she whispered.

His large, clawed hand tightened at his side. He turned around once more, his cheeks still slightly red. “Of course.”

The queen turned her bare back to him, her heart pounding slightly as she felt his presence grow near. She inhaled shakily as she felt his claws prickle her back as he attempted to fit the cloth buttons into their loops.

Lotor’s voice was a soft murmur, “I cannot reveal to the Emperor or Empress who I am. Their own nobles would seek my execution. It is better this way, that they believe me dead.”

Allura’s white brows knitted together in pain. “Oh, but they love you so much, Lotor. As do I. It kills them more to believe their son is dead—they would not allow anything to happen to you if you simply told them—”

His voice strangled with incredulity, his breath puffing against her curls. “—Did I hear you love me?”

She swallowed hard, raising her chin. “Well, of course. You were my best friend, for all those months. I—I hold a deep emotion about it.” She awkwardly ran her fingers across the stitched collar of her dress. “How could I not.”

Lotor gently turned her around. His sharp, alien eyes focused on her. His throat tightened. “Did you go to that vault, year after year, out of obligation to support my parents, or fondness for the boy you knew?”

“Fondness,” she whispered in pain.

The man swallowed back hard emotion. He reached out and dared to touch her cheek, as if in awe of her. He gently stroked the pink markings on her cheek, which had once so enamored him. “Truly, princess, I loved you too. More than anything.”

And then he pulled away.

Allura instinctively reached for his hand, without fear of his claws. She wrapped her fingers around his own, her eyes wide and heart pounding. “I’m sorry,” she said, suddenly, looking guilty. “I—I don’t mean to pull more emotion from you than you genuinely feel. Or…or to make you uncomfortable, using that word _love_. I know so much has changed, and we’re both quite…different now than we were as children, and—”

His long, warm fingers intertwined with hers.

And suddenly, he pulled her forward, and he leaned down. He pressed a kiss to her smooth forehead. He closed his eyes, knitting his elegant brows together fervently.

The queen’s eyes widened, words dying in the back of her throat. She froze in surprise save for her fingers, which tightened against his own. Lotor sensed the tension in her and immediately pulled way, his breath puffing against her face.

The silence spoke louder than his next words.

“Never question the devotion I have for you,” he breathed, voice catching oddly.

Allura’s eyes watered in awe. The nerves in her fizzled pleasantly from her forehead to the base of her spine, even more pleasantly buzzing between her legs with the sound of his voice.

She searched his eyes, her face lighting up in a mix of delight and fear of rejection. “Is it, um, the devotion of a childhood friend, or…or that of something more? Because I’m afraid I can’t…quite tell….”

Lotor’s lips still lingered within inches of her own. “Do you want something more?”

Like this, Allura could feel Lotor’s presence. Gravity seemed to center on his lips. She swallowed hard, daring to whisper, “Well, I…I always wondered…what we might have been. Had you stayed and returned to being a prince.”

Lotor’s clawed fingers raised up her chin. He opened his mouth, the tips of his fangs glimmering in the dim light. “I imagine, princess, I would have been one of your suitors.” His lips began to stretch. “And our fathers would have _not_ allowed us to share beds, or undress each other.”

The comment was inane enough to inspire a giggle from her. Damnably, her own body began to betray her, with her dark cheeks flushing. “I would have liked that, you being a suitor. Stealing away to share beds.” But Lotor’s body betrayed him as well. As she searched his eyes, she saw that his slit pupils had dilated, the blue overtaken by a darkness that enhanced his predator eyesight. Such things meant either that a Galran was facing something that utterly delighted them, or else that they were hunting prey.

Allura felt an exhilarating chill down her spine with the uncertainty of it. That his eyes were tracking her now, dilated for her alone.

The man set his forehead against her own, a deep want within him. “I fear sharing beds now will result in less innocent actions between us.”

“What’s so wrong with that?” she whispered. “Even a kiss or two is still quite innocent. Considering that we might have been betrothed in another life.”

He pulled away until his lips were an inch away from her own, his pupils increasingly dilated. “I shouldn’t,” he whispered. “That is how children are made.”

Allura’s fingers instinctively slid down her stomach as she searched his eyes. “It takes a bit more than simply _kissing_ ,” she whispered, her full lips twitching. But the thought of baby making in that moment did not seem quite so alien as it had before. For she felt it—the burn to feel a man between her legs, rising up from the base of her spine to spark fizzles in her skull.

No doubt, he could sense it upon her.

The prince inhaled, his sharp eyes focused upon her. His pupils had dilated even further from her scent, until the blue of his eye was completely black. “Do not tempt me to seduce you on this night.” There was an ache in his voice. “I cannot risk the consequences, and neither can you.”

The Queen of Altea stood before him, with the back of her dress still partially undone, the fabric loops hanging like wings from her. She swallowed hard, her eyes wide and innocent and so terribly full of want. They were still close. He had not moved, and she had not stepped back. “Of course. I just, um…” She awkwardly ran her fingers down the curls of her hair. Her eyes began to water.

He was rejecting her.

Lotor licked his lips, his elfin ears drooping in pain. He could sense the salt of her tears as well. “Allura. As deep as our feelings run, I must place your greater good above all else.”

Allura swallowed hard. She managed a shakily smile that did not reach her eyes. “I know,” she whispered. Her lips quivered. “And truly, I am grateful. I just wish you didn’t have to…always pull away.”

The world felt like it was collapsing upon her. Alone. She was always, in the end, alone.

“Do not cry.” His voice pulled in pain. “You knew you had me from the moment you fed me Vulo. I will always be here for you, in the ways I can.”

Allura patted her patchwork dress, her eyes watering harder. “I know. And perhaps it is my head injury, or—or simply seeing you again. I feel so out of sorts. I’ve not even seen you in thirteen years—I feel silly encouraging this business about a kiss.”

The thief-prince held out his large palm, his claws gleaming in the light. “Then allow me to finish looping you into your dress, my queen.” His voice softened. “After, we can get you something you eat. I believe food may settle your mind. And my own.”

The queen nodded tightly, and she turned around, allowing her vision to blur hard with tears that she couldn’t hide. “It’s most certainly the head injury,” she complained shakily. “I can heal the wound, but I fear thoughts still get all jumbled. I may yet be a bit strange.”

Lotor’s warm fingers began to pull the fabric loops of the dress. His fingertips occasionally swept across her back back—as if it ached him to not touch her. “I once saw you fight off a monster under the bed with a sword you fashioned from a lamp and hair comb.” His voice broke with an amused huff. “I’m used to seeing you strange.”

Allura huffed. “Yes, well, you were having nightmares.” She raised her chin, attempting to stabilize from her moment of weakness. “I was simply performing my due diligence as your protector.”

He leaned forward as he tied the last loop. “You protected me well. I’ve never had a nightmare since.” And then he cinched the final loop around the button, and he stepped away from her, swallowing hard. “There. Will this suffice to clothe you for the night?”

The queen turned back around, shifting a bit in her makeshift dress. The dress was baggy, in the ways of the Galran servant class, and not even fitted to her body, with a collar that seemed a bit too wide for her Altean shoulders. But yet… “It’s perfect,” she said softly, inhaling deeply with a sigh of relief. There was still a small quiver in her voice.

Lotor’s eyes roved over her, a soft and sad smile stretching his lips. And then he leaned down, grabbing for her crumpled, black dress with the golden threads. The material was still warm with her living heat, with her pleasant scent emanating from it like a beacon. “What say you to a bowl of soup and bread for supper, then?”

She hesitated for a tick. “That sounds lovely. But, um, what will you do with my dress?”

The man’s clawed fingers tightened into the black velvet and gold threads, and he angled an elegant brow. “Not give it back,” he murmured.

Allura gave him a look.

His lips stretched to reveal those dangerous fangs.

* * *

Lotor handed the great mourning dress of Queen Allura of Altea to the sewing circle, so that they could strip out the gold thread for market and cut the black velvet into clothes for the orphans and the newborn child. On the way down to the kitchens, they saw the pregnant Galran woman from before.

She was sweaty and still swollen—but now, gently wiping the blood of birth from the cheek of her newborn. She cried happy tears and kissed its little squished forehead as it twitched in a blanket in her arms. Her lover—the Galran man who had been massaging her arms—sat crying in relief beside her, alternating between kissing her and attempting to clean them both with rags from the bucket of water at his side. Allura turned away when she saw the woman begin to lower her collar so her child could suckle.

And suddenly, a great ache overcame Allura. Her white brows knitted together in consternation. She looked down at her arms as if she were a stranger, for never before that night had she ever longed to bear a child. The thought usually disturbed her. And then it disturbed her again, to realize that when she _did_ one day bear a child for some self-entitled prince or noblemen, it would be with the utmost comforts and medical care that money could buy. Likely, she’d have one of those special devices fitted to her neck, which so effortlessly disrupted all pain—

She quieted, in increasing respect for the Galran woman in the hall, suddenly wishing she’d done something, long before now.

She turned to Lotor, grabbing his hand. “I should like to pay doctors to come here,” she said, voice earnest. “To offer assistance for mothers. To keep everyone healthy and free of pain.”

His lips twitched in sardonic humor as they walked. He squeezed her hand back. “Oh, princess. The nobles do not wish us to be healthy. They would disrupt your plans in a dozen ways.”

Allura blinked innocently. “Why in the heavens would they do that?”

He slid knowing, jaded eyes to her. It was then she realized that he had seen darkness in people that she had not. “The poor are more easily controlled when we are sick and dying. The Emperor once attempted to send us basic medicines and supplies, during a time of great illness. He trusted his vassals to distribute them accordingly. We never saw one bandage or vial of medicine, and the nobles blamed our deaths on natural genetic deficiency.”

A deep, righteous anger swept through her, and her brows angled. “What? How can they—how can they possibly get away with such a terrible act? How has this not come to the attention of the Emperor, that his vassals are so cruel?”

Lotor’s jaw clenched. “As you may know, the Emperor’s decision to marry a non-royal Altean woman placed him at great odds with several powerful families. I believe he…lightened internal oversight to avoid being overthrown himself.”

The queen walked beside the thief-prince, glancing up at him with curious, pained eyes. “He _is_ a good man,” she pressed softly. “If he knew these issues, he would surely do something about it. I could tell him.”

“…It would not matter,” Lotor murmured, and then he pulled away, an unsettled, disgruntled expression on his face. “He has little power to defy them and seems to care more for emotional appeals than genuine logic. That is why the Court of Miracles has risen to the heights it has. To correct the balance of power in favor of class equality.”

Allura paused at that. She swallowed hard. “And all the—the funds I’ve provided? For education, for industrial innovations?”

“I’m quite certain your goodwill is wrapped in diamonds around the necks of many a noble,” Lotor retorted lightly. His own frustration with the concept inspired him to walk faster. And with his long legs, he began to gap from Allura.

She moved to scurry beside him to close the gap, her white curls streaming behind her. “Surely there is at least one province ruler who is not entirely depraved?”

The prince hesitated. “…There are some, yes, in the smaller cities and the countryside, where they take care to know their people.” And then he held out his hand to offer it to her. “But you have always been our greatest patron.”

Allura reached for his fingers, so easily intertwining her own with his in full trust. “It hurts to hear that such patronage has not reached you.”

He squeezed her hand, his sharp face softening for her, such that it made her heart skip.

And as they walked alongside each other, he murmured to her, “I find ways to ensure it reaches the people who need it most. It just takes time.”

The queen pouted slightly. “But you shouldn’t have to resort to underhanded tactics to receive what is gifted to you. This…this entire operation with the Court of Miracles only dangers you and the others, and it does not solve the underlying issue.”

“…I am aware.”

Her eyes widened in innocence. “Then should we not consider other options? New approaches so that your people— _you_ —can thrive in a life not founded upon stealing and lying and assassinations?”

“Who said anything about assassinations?” he responded, his voice light.

Her face faulted. “You know exactly what I mean.”

The fallen prince sighed in a merry, indulgent way. “I’m quite certain I don’t. But I appreciate your concern, princess.”

“You know I’ve always wanted the best for you,” she whispered, tightening her fingers around his. “That hasn’t changed.”

In that tick, the Galran man seemed to grow overcome with an emotion. He managed a smile, but it grew tight. For a time, he could say nothing. He simply continued to hold her hand tight and guide her along.

As they walked through the tall hallways, a dozen predator eyes watched them, yellow irises glowing in the increasing darkness of the sunset. Allura blinked in surprise at the sight of the eyes flashing from the open thresholders. “What are—?”

And then a Galran child in a threadbare dress meekly peeked her head out, her face bearing a deep scab from a cut, which matted her fur. Her big eyes widened at the sight of Allura, and she swallowed hard. Her little heart seemed to visibly beat as quickly as a Vulo’s.

Lotor’s own eyes glowed as well in the increasing darkness, as they always had. They honed in on the child. “Senti?” he called, his voice even.

The little girl held something in her hands, which trembled. She glanced between them, then awkwardly managed a bow. “I—have somethin’. Fow the pwetty queen.” It seemed she was still small enough that her own fangs garbled her speech.

And her clawed hands opened up to reveal a beaded bracelet. The beads themselves were a smooth metal—they looked like bullet casings she’d most likely dug up from wars centuries ago, before the Galran military had known of quintessence-based weaponry.

She shakingly raised her hands, offering her gift.

Allura’s hand slipped from Lotor’s, and her heart melted. “Oh.” She kneeled down, her patchwork dress flaring about her muddied slippers. “Why, this is absolutely lovely. Did you make this yourself?”

The little Galran girl squeaked and nodded, daring to gaze upon Allura’s face in awe.

Allura smiled brightly, such that a mist rose to her eyes. This child wore rags and yet still offered gifts from what little she had. “This is excellent workmanship. I shall wear it with pride.” And she gently accepted the bracelet, the bullet casings clinking against each other in something of a merry jingle.

Senti, the child, smiled back—and then her smile faltered, for it pulled her scab on her cheek. She raised her dirty hand to her face with a noise of pain.

Lotor kneeled then, holding out his hand. A concern tightened his face as he reached out to the child’s chin, turning her head gently so he could inspect her wound. “…Have you washed this today, little one?”

The child leaned into his touch in starvation for affection, her big eyes welling with tears. Her silence spoke for her.

“You need to wash your wound to avoid infection,” Lotor said, voice quiet with concern but firm. And then he gently patted her shoulder, guiding her in the direction of the washing area. “Go on, now. Your gift to Queen Allura is much appreciated.”

And Allura made a noise, her fingers tightening around the precious bullet. “Oh, let me heal her cut. It’s the least I can do. Please.”

His eyes slid to her. There was a vulnerable edge in him. “You would?”

“Of course.” She held out her free hand, giving the little girl a soft smile. “Do you want your hurt to go away right now?”

Senti’s eyes widened even bigger, and she nodded profusely.

The queen raised her fingers to the girl’s cheek, hovering over the matted cut, which emanated with the heat of infection already. Her fingers began to glow a soft blue. “I shall heal you, then.” Her eyes softened. “In thanks for your pretty bracelet.”

There was a short pause in time, and then the girl inhaled sharply as the cut upon her furred face shrunk, her skin beneath knitting up.

Allura pulled her hand away, inspecting her work.

And Senti’s large ears flicked back in surprise and awe. Her lips dropped open, her little milk fangs peeking out from her mouth. She began to cry in delight that she was no longer in pain.

“Does that feel better, little one?” Allura asked softly.

The child nodded. Her dirty fingers awkwardly tightened into her ragged clothes, and she stared at Allura as if she’d seen the face of a goddess. Then, she reached out to touch Allura’s fingers, curiously inspecting them. She poked at them, as if trying to see how light could emanate from them.

Lotor’s voice strained. “Senti, perhaps the queen would prefer you ask to touch her before you do.”

The queen giggled, “Oh, she’s alright.” And she held still as the Galran child began to inspect her hair, touching it as if it were silk. “I suppose she’s not used to seeing alchemy.”

“Not many are,” he retorted wryly, voice softening.

And suddenly, more eyes glowed from more open thresholds, and several children appeared from the darkness, carrying with them seashells and scraps of fabric, fashioning various bracelets and necklaces for the visiting queen.

Soon, Allura sat overwhelmed by all the children clambering for her attention and attempting to touch her hair and offer her various trash baubles. The children even began to climb onto Lotor’s lap and shoulders in hopes of better catching the attention of the mysterious Altean queen.

Lotor huffed, protectively steadying a child trying to climb his arm. “One at a time,” he complained, “or she will think us uncivilized.”

But he knew what it was like, to be in awe of Allura.

As he watched the queen coo the ragged children, some of them mixed-bloods as well, a lump tightened in his throat. He recalled the cool of her energy and the warm of her hands, from all those years ago…And he longed to nuzzle against the crook of her neck, just like the little girl Senti was doing as a sign of great familial affection. But Lotor knew that things were different now.

He and Allura were no longer children.

He no longer simply wanted to nuzzle Queen Allura as children did, but as mates would…

* * *

It was nearly an hour later before the Queen Allura found herself sitting at a rickety table, bejeweled with the artwork of the Miracle children, her wrists glimmering with wooden beads and bullet casings. Her muddied slippers were tucked daintily beneath her long patchwork skirt, but her ankle bore a woven braid of yarns. “How marvelous they all are,” she cooed, occasionally still admiring her fabric jewelry. She gracefully sipped upon a spoonful of broth, turning her free wrist in awe of the colors. “They bestowed many honors upon me.”

On the opposite side of the table, Lotor slurped on his spoon, watching her intently. He lowered the utensil, licking his bottom lip. Galrans, as it were, had far more angled tongues than Altean’s. But his eyes were caught upon the bracelets of many colors. “Do you still find the Court of Miracles to be a place of cannibalism and sacrifices?”

The queen gave him a look of shame, even as she moved to dip her hard bread into the soup. The soup was runny and without any flourishes; and yet it was a welcome feast for her empty stomach. “Oh, now you’re just rubbing it in.”

He smiled, his fangs still sharp.

Allura looked up, searching his eyes. “But so many were so small,” she mourned. “Their fingers were bony and their little faces sunken in. And that girl—the first one—”

“—Senti,” Lotor offered.

“Yes, her.” The queen’s voice grew halted. “How did she obtain such a terrible cut on her face? It looked like…something from a sword or a dagger….”

Lotor looked down at his own small bowl of soup, and suddenly there was an age in him. “Truly, I don’t know.” A stress line appeared between his brows. “It could have been from playing on the old machinery that barricades us, or else a punishment from stealing in the market.”

“And her parents?” Allura asked softly, a worry within her. “Do they watch her or help her care for her cuts? Do children often suffer from such wounds here?”

The prince raised his eyes, searching her. “She has no family,” he murmured. Something caught in him—a sting. The stress line returned between his brows. “But do not ask such questions. It is best if you do not grow attached to them.”

“Why ever not?” she demanded.

Lotor’s jaw tightened. A raw pain flickered across his face, and he set down his spoon. “Children guarantee nothing but sorrow.”

Allura’s fingers tightened upon her spoon at that. For a time, she could say nothing, for she had spoken and thought much the same. But then, she managed a weak smile and teased, “And yet you still stole my dress to clothe them and that newborn child.”

He bit his lip. His sharp cheeks flushed in an odd way. He said nothing as he returned to breaking his bread and dipping it into the watery soup.

Allura reached out to touch his wrist.

He paused, his ears flicking back as his eyes snapped to her.

She whispered, voice earnest, “I think it’s sweet, what you do for them. But I don’t know how you could possibly keep your distance with them.”

Lotor’s voice grew wry. “I don’t. Eventually.” And then he set his cheek in his hand, eyeing her. “But you, princess, are very different. You are wearing trash like gems, and I do not know any other noble who would have given them such honor.”

The queen’s lips split. Lotor still called her _princess_. “Oh, but…” She looked down, pulling one of the fabric cords up from around her neck. “Look at this color theory right here. I can’t remember the name of the boy, but he’ll grow to be an artist, I’m sure of it. And—and—this beaded thing here. Look at how finely spaced the beads are compared to the knots. Someone is paying great attention to detail.”

His eyes softened. “You will wait, then, to toss out these gifts until after you leave?”

The Queen Allura of Altea gave him an indignant look. “How dare you, sir, suggest that I would throw away these gifts at all. Why, look at them.” She waved at herself and her arms. “I’ve never received so many genuine gifts in my life.”

Her voice tightened up suddenly on the last word.

Lotor’s gaze narrowed in curiosity.

She somewhat meekly returned to dipping bread in the soup, attempting to blink away an odd watering in her eyes. “It’s just,” she whispered, “a nice change from all the masquerade of the royal court, where families offer me well-wishes behind this…this face of judgment. Even their children mimic it.”

“Why would they judge you so, princess?”

Her elfin ears drooped. She munched on the hard bread for a time, before admitted slowly, “It’s nothing for you to concern yourself over.”

Lotor’s face faulted. “I want to know the problem. Perhaps I may convince them otherwise.”

Allura huffed. “There is nothing for you to convince them of. It’s simply that I’m becoming a bit of an...old maid in Altean culture. They all think I should have married well before my father died, with a baby already on the way to secure the royal line. Any gifts from them are wrought with political intrigue and…suggestions.” And then she stuffed bread in her mouth to hide that her cheeks had started to flush.

Lotor set back, critical. “Why do they push you so? You do not look old to me, nor do you smell infertile.”

She gave him a helpless look. “That’s not the point.”

He sniffed, daring to brush his white hair over his shoulder. “Your people are backwards, anyway. Divine right to rule is the scourge of the past. The vote of the people will be the wave of the future, and it will not matter what one’s heritage is—only one’s capability to lead.”

Allura fell silent. Her face crumpled in an odd way, her brows knitting together. She looked down, awkwardly running her finger along the bullet-casing necklace. “There is sense in what you say,” she offered slowly. “Royalty are just as infallible as anyone else.” Her gaze grew distant. “No doubt, any man who marries me will do so only for power and to secure his child as the next ruler.”

Lotor fell silent at that. “Will you be required to marry eventually?”

“Eventually,” she whispered. And then she managed a weak smile. “But hopefully not for quite a while yet. My advisor, Coran—he keeps trying to arrange these galas of sorts to force me to intermingle. But I usually sabotage his efforts in some way.”

A merry glint rose in Lotor’s eyes. “How so?”

The queen leaned forward. “I once tossed all of his invitations into a fire when he wasn’t looking.” Her brow angled in pain. “But even your father speaks of all these military men who would make excellent mates for me. It’s quite taxing.”

Lotor leaned forward as well, placing his cheek in his hand.

Like this, their faces were only inches apart once more.

“Deepest sympathies for your most tragic lot in life,” he pouted. “By far the most heart-wrenching sob story I’ve heard yet in the Court.”

She face-faulted. “Oh, don’t tease me like that.”

His face split with a fanged smile, and he pulled away then, returning to his dinner. His smile hid a falter in him. It was a discomforting jealousy that swarmed hot within him, at the thought of another man marrying Allura. Touching Allura—

He cleared his throat. “As the Prince of the Court of Miracles, it is my utmost duty to frustrate the sensitivities of those who rule the aboveground.”

She giggled and tossed a little breadcrumb at him.

Lotor made a strangled noise, pawing at a crack in his armor to dig out the prodigal breadcrumb. “And just like a noble,” he retorted lightly. “Wasting food for entertainment.” But he tossed it right back at her, and she squeaked in another giggle to avoid it, only for it to catch in one of her curls. “How lucky you are that you’re worth 500 barrels of grain.”

Allura lightly kicked his shin beneath the table. “Which you ransomed me for, you scoundrel.”

His eyes danced. “Does it count as ransom if my actions were not against your will? You came with me quite willingly.”

The queen pressed her lips together. “And I don’t regret it,” she murmured, looking up into his eyes, a soft humor rising in her. “Something about all of it…still feels like old times. As if all these years have not passed.”

The prince leaned forward. “I’m not sure you’ll say the same when we attempt this mad scheme to share a bed like old times.” His brow quirked. “I’m not certain how we’ll both fit.”

Her full lips twitched up. “I distinctly remember you hogging the blankets anyway and pushing me off with those long legs of yours,” she teased.

Lotor face-faulted. “That happened only once.”

Allura gave him a playful pout. “And my elbow still hurts from hitting the floor.”

The Galran man leaned forward. “Should I kiss it better, princess?”

She sniffed, then very delicately raised her arm. “You may, Prince of the Court.”

Lotor’s eyes flickered to hers. He reached out, his long, clawed fingers gently wrapping around her forearm. She was soft and warm, and for all of her great strength, it was a vulnerable position that would have allowed him to snap her arm like a twig.

He leaned in a bit more and raised her arm gently. And he pressed his lips against her dainty elbow where a bruise once bloomed thirteen years prior.

And something sparked between his lips and her skin, and it was not a wholesome bid for forgiveness. He pulled away as if it burned him to let her go, the taste of juniberries hot on his lips and the soft of her skin imprinted upon his palm.

Allura froze there, feeling the spark as well. The banter died upon the tip of her tongue as she lowered her arm, her bracelets jingling.

The two royals stared at each other in hunger, their bowls of soup forgotten between them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, everyone. I hope you’re still doing okay in the midst of coronavirus. Things are still pretty unsettled on my end, in that I’m not sure I’ll have a job from week to week, haha. So I’ve been just trying to take it a day at a time and write a little Lotura for consistency’s sake. Still trying to work on my other stories too, but this one felt like a blank slate in a lot of ways still, and I think I’ve just kinda needed that lately. 
> 
> Please review with your thoughts, constructive criticisms, ideas, or questions! Thank you so much!


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to the following awesome people for reviewing last time: 
> 
> LunarMagnolia: Ooof, these babies are making me sweat bullets too omg! They want so badly to be together! I’m so happy you enjoy the Miracle children though—they sort of just wrote themselves in, and I ran with it, haha. As, strangely, did the mourning dress. Thank you so much for reviewing as always! I really appreciate it! 
> 
> Wallflwr97: Ahh I’m so happy you are still enjoying this story! I love an undressing scene too, haha. XD And oooh, you ask some really great questions about what the moral consequences are for what’s happened, with her position in society compared to what she’s seen in the Court now. That’s definitely something I’d love to address as the story goes on. Thank you again for your reviews!! 
> 
> Sachianna: A little game of cat and mouse is afoot, it seems! Thank you so much for reading this and for reviewing. I really appreciate it! <3
> 
> MalevoLiss (MissLissa1): Bless you dear! Thanks for your review! 
> 
> KairaB: Oof, yes, please do call these trouble babs out. They’re definitely in a struggle! I’d love for them to just get together as well. We’ll have to see what they end up doing! But ahhh thank you so much for your kind words and support on not only this story but on The Second Law as well. I’m hoping to update that story soon too! <3
> 
> Asennnaa: Thank you!! Guh, Lotura has such tension, I love to play in the sandbox of it. And yaaas, I have faith that Allura is going to do something as a result of seeing the Court for what it is. Thank you so much for your reviews and support! 
> 
> Bat: Thank you for your kind words and review! Yes, one day at a time is always a good way to move forward! 
> 
> NickyADon: I do have a very soft spot in my heart for Aladdin and for Robin Hood both, haha. I think there’s a lot of tropes within all that which are fun to apply to Lotura. XD Thank you as always for reviewing! 
> 
> Dreams of Kalopsia (Sir_Arghs_III): Ahhh, guh, I love romances founded on friendship as well! The whole concept of smoltura and adult Lotura just intrigues me so much when paired with the multitude of social tensions they have! Thank you so much for your kind words and your support!! I hope things are going well on you side of the world too! 
> 
> Sukiya62: Thank you for continuing to read and review this wild story! I’m with you; I’d love for them to just throw caution to the wind, haha. Sometimes a family is a thief prince, a queen, and a bunch of orphan Miracle children, right? XD Thank you again, and I hope you’re staying safe too!

Queen Allura of Altea and the long-lost Prince Lotor of the Galran Empire were frozen at the table where they sat. Lotor swallowed back deep emotion, his lips still burning with the heat of her skin. He licked his lips to taste the residual salt of her. “Apologies,” he said, his voice growing halted. “I…”

Words failed him.

His face tightened hard in want. He lowered his gaze to his hand. His clawed fingers twitched, and he suddenly pulled his hands down, grabbing for his soup spoon. His jaw clenched hard.

Allura pressed her lips together. Her breath hitched, and she blurted out quickly, “I am sorry as well.”

His slit, alien eyes snapped to her, hesitant with apprehension.

The queen’s face flushed. “I, um, suppose it’s very easy to get carried away with teases and laughs. You’re so very fun to talk to, still. And to be with.” 

Lotor inhaled sharply. His face tensed even more, but with pain this time. “And it is far too easy to kiss any part of you.” He looked down at his soup, awkwardly raising his spoon, only to tilt it to watch the soup slip back into the bowl. “I am sorry, princess.” His face twitched. “Queen, I mean.”

“No,” she said, eyes widening in earnestness. “I—” Her words strangled in her throat. Her elbow still tingled with the heat of his lips. “I liked it.”

His clawed fingers tightened on the spoon. A great vulnerability slipped through him, aging his face. “And I as well, but it does not change our circumstance.”

Allura’s slim shoulders deflated slightly. She moved to hold her arm he’d kissed closer to it, as if to protect the memory as best as possible. She blinked, and her eyes began to burn strangely. “I know.”

He looked up and managed a weak tease of a smile. “Why does a beautiful and powerful queen such as yourself desire the touch of a lowly half-breed anyway, hm?”

She very primly straightened her spine, raising her face despite the redness of her cheeks. “Because. You are very handsome in body and mind, sir.” Her voice caught oddly. “And—and truly, I feel as though you have been my only genuine friend.”

The words settled between them with a hard weight. Lotor lowered his spoon entirely, and it clinked against his bowl. He stared at her in great pain.

She leaned forward and whispered, “You’re supposed to look happy when a queen compliments you so. Why do you look as though I’ve struck you instead?”

Lotor’s white brows knitted together, his claws clinking on the armored plates that lined his thighs. His velvet voice twisted up in great sorrow. “Only you would bestow such honors on me.” 

But there was an edge to his voice.

A warning, that they were bridging into territory too dangerous for them both.

It fell silent between them.

Allura slid her hand over the table, her palm raised up, her many bracelets clinking together. Her voice broke with an earnestness. “I mean what I say.” She swallowed hard with emotion. “You mean so much, for so many reasons. I _want_ you to know it. No matter what you’ve done, or what happens after this night.”

He looked down at her hand. Slowly, he reached for her.

His clawed fingers intertwined with her own. His skin was rough with callouses, with a few scars upon his palm. His throat tightened hard enough that he could not speak.

Lotor tightened his hand around hers, his breath hitching. “Allura.”

The name slipped from him as if it were a prayer. The lack of title was intimate, bearing with it a great undertow of emotion—and trust. For in some places, it was a heavy whipping to address a royal without their title of honor.

Allura’s face lifted sweetly in a smile of hope. She squeezed his fingers back. 

Lotor searched her eyes in awe. He opened his mouth to speak—

—but another voice cut in. It was that of a sharp, disapproving voice. An aged female voice.

“What in the stars is _this_.”

Lotor flinched away from Allura, his claws a prickle against her skin. He stood up in a flurry, eyes blown wide. His voice caught strangely. “Dayak.”

From out of the shadows of a hallway came a tall Galran woman. Her shoulders stooped slightly from age, her purple face riddled with wrinkles. But she wore the armor of the Blades, her ears encased in a headdress that mimicked the ears of a predator animal.

She carried a rod in her hands, tapping it against her palm with great disappointment. “You brought her _here_.”

Lotor pressed his lips together tightly, then said, waving his hand, “The Queen Allura has graciously allowed herself to play ransom for 500 barrels of grain. You should be thankful to her, Dayak.” His voice hardened, his eyes narrowing.

Dayak narrowed her eyes right back. “I would be more thankful if I did not find you schmoozing her as if she were a prostitute.”

Allura’s eyes widened, and she stood up. “I beg your pardon, madam.”

Dayak ignored her. “And furthermore, where are the queen’s clothes? She even _looks_ like a bar floozy now. You endanger our operations with your fancies for her.” She tapped her rod in her hand. “I half-expected to walk in on a mating.” 

The man’s cheeks flushed. “Do not chastise me like a child,” he warned.

The old woman gave him a dry look. She raised her rod and poked his chest armor with the end of it. “Then act like a man and introduce me instead of attempting to seduce your guest,” she demanded. “You’re being rude.”

“ _You’re_ being rude,” he snapped, his elfin ears flicking back in irritation. His unsettled eyes turned to Allura, who looked bewildered and upset. “Queen Allura, this is Dayak. My…sponsor, if you will.”

Allura very primly clasped her hands before her. Despite the flush of indignation upon her face, she managed to raise her chin, attempting to present herself as stately as possible. “I remember the name from earlier. Was this the woman who sought to kill you in your cradle?” 

Dayak’s red eyes flickered to her.

She’d caught the diminutive edge in Allura’s voice.

She was attempting to establish rank.

“As you can see,” Dayak deadpanned, “I did not kill him, but raised him as my own. And even still guide him.” She tapped his chest armor again, insistently with her rod. “He’s a wild sort of boy who does not always listen to wisdom.”

“Oh, how tragic,” Allura said pleasantly, a tight smile upon her face. “If only you’d left him to be raised as the rightful heir to the empire, perhaps he would not be so wild.”

Lotor knocked the rod away, making a face. “I am not wild,” he complained, his voice straining. “And Dayak—you stand before true royalty. Bow before the queen of Altea, who is our great benefactor.”

Dayak’s red eyes narrowed. She turned to Allura, staring her right in the eyes, which was a direct confrontation against all royal protocols. “Decades of hard labor have stiffened my knees.”

The queen tilted her head. She hesitated for a time, her eyes hardening. “And I, madam, would not mind your knees if you would not insult me.”

“You are _not_ supposed to be here,” Dayak snapped. “And you have no protected right to speak in this Court.” There was a worry line from her mouth, and she turned to Lotor. Something in her actions was almost bird-like. Too precise. Too sharp. “The prince invites calamity upon us all. That is why I returned when I heard of your ransoming.”

“It was not your decision to make, Dayak.” Lotor’s voice turned downward. “She came along willingly, besides.”

The old woman huffed, pulling away. She moved to tap her rod in her hands once more, eyeing them both. “Obviously,” she murmured, “judging by the scents upon you both and the gossip I have heard within these thin walls.”

Allura narrowed her eyes. “What gossip is that?”

Dayak’s gaze snapped back to her. She looked even more aged in that moment—and knowing, so terribly knowing.

She adjusted her rod to hold it under her arm, her spindly fingers searching for something in the pocket of her armored skirts. Her thin lips flattened. “There will be a great outcry of rage against the Court, if Queen Allura returns to the emperor and swells with the bastard child of a bandit.” And then she somewhat roughly set two small vials of a green liquid upon the table.

Lotor’s face tightened in surprise, his elfin ears snapping back.

The aged woman pulled away, her clawed fingers hesitant. “The extract of the Rubalat flower, which nobles have almost hunted to extinction for its contraceptive properties.” She eyed them both. “I will say nothing more, and I expect to _hear_ nothing on this night.”

Allura’s breath hitched. She looked to Lotor, her blush stretching to the tips of her ears and down the full front of her body. “How did—how did you obtain these vials?” They were expensive, even on the dark markets. Allura could remember the gossiping whispers of the more confident women in the royal courts. “And why?”

Dayak pulled her rod from under her arm, as if it were something she needed to hold for personal security. There was an odd line in her mouth. “I am not a fool,” she said. “And if _you two_ are to be foolish, then I’d rather you not ruin the integrity of the Court’s ability to operate in the shadows. You can thank the insatiable appetite and incompetence of Lord Yatek for these vials, as well as Ezor for stealing them.” 

And then she turned around. She walked in a stiff manner, her shadow looming across the empty room.

She left Allura and Lotor in the silence, with the both of them bewildered.

It was Allura who broke away first, her white brows knitting together. “No, wait!” she pleaded, voice caught in a strangle. “I’ve many questions to ask you.”

“You do not command me,” Dayak called over her shoulder.

The queen persisted, her voice breaking. “Lotor was a _prince_. He was to be emperor of these lands, and yet you stole that from him. You stole everything from him. Why?”

Dayak paused in her walk. Several ticks passed before she turned around, her old, red eyes dark with turmoil. “Do not speak of this so loudly.”

“I want an answer.” The anger and hurt in her rose so greatly that her eyes misted. “You give him things, perhaps, but you tore him from those who _loved_ him, you faked a brutal murder, and you tossed him to an orphanage and to the streets—”

“—Allura,” Lotor cut in, reaching for her with a fret in his brow, his cheeks still flushed.

“—And then you _waltzed_ back into his life to make him a child soldier for the underground?” she pressed on, her voice breaking. “Who is this woman who stands before me?”

Lotor gently grabbed onto her hand, his clawed fingers intertwining with her own. “It’s rather complicated.” 

Dayak’s thin, wrinkled lips tightened. For a time, she looked as if she would perhaps strike Allura with her rod, her skeletal knuckles bleeding white from her steel grip on the metal. “And who are you to judge my actions, Queen Allura, when you do not know what it cost me?” Her eyes flickered to Lotor briefly, with a pain. “I will take my leave now, and _you’re welcome_ once again for offering you Rubalat, to indulge yourselves as _true nobles do_ without consequence.” And then she turned away, stiffly walking.

Queen Allura stood there in loss, her white brows knitting together in a mix of indignancy and pain and confusion—and embarrassment as well. The turmoil of emotion was such that her eyes began to burn.

Lotor’s fingers slipped through hers, his white hair flickering as he stepped forward. His velvet voice strained. “Dayak, do not be like this.”

The old woman waved him off as she exited into a hall, shoving aside one of the hanging blankets with a sharp thrust of her wrist. Her absence left Lotor and Allura once again in the silence of the feasting room, with the two vials of Rubalat still sitting innocently beside their bowls of half-eaten soup.

The prince turned back, frazzled. He ran a hand through his hair. “I am sorry. Please do not take offense to her, or else take your anger out on me. I—” His voice caught, his brows knitting together in frustration—“she is…she means well.”

Allura’s eyes flickered up to his. She stared at him in consternation, her tears bubbling up. And then she awkwardly glanced down to pick at one of the threaded necklaces offered to her by the Miracle children. “Does she?” She breathed out strangely, blinking fast. Her dark fingers fell from the threads in a mix of awe and horror. “I am at loss.”

Lotor swallowed hard, his ears flicking back in a slight panic. “I will have her apologize to you.”

The queen’s cheeks were enflamed with emotion as she twisted her fingers into the cloth necklace. “No, do not bother with it. I’m not a stranger to being judged or hated.” Her face twisted in an odd way. “I just have never been judged by the one who sought to murder you.”

Lotor moved to stand before the table, hiding the two vials of Rubalat. His own sharp cheeks were still flushed as well. “As I said, it’s…complicated.”

Allura’s fingers fell from her necklace, and she leaned against one of the other feasting tables, looking vulnerable and raw. “In what way?” she pleaded. “She clearly has interest in your welfare, to offer…Rubalat.” Her cheeks flamed hard. Her voice strained. “But then knowing all she’s done—”

“—Dayak was led to believe that half-breeds were monsters,” he cut in, not unkindly. His face tightened in pain. “Until she saw me, and made a decision that kept me alive but also satisfied her employers. You may see her as the enemy, but she suffers great guilt over the past.”

The queen hesitated. “And—and how she disparages me but also gives you Rubalat to…? For us to—?” Words strangled in her throat.

The man’s claws clinked against the glass of the vials, his own face tight with an awkward turmoil. “She presumes much. My apologies, princess, for any offense to you.” He cleared his throat. “I will remove these from your sight, and I will sleep in the throne room to avoid further rumors against you.” 

Silence fell between them.

Allura looked down. Her breath hitched in an odd way, her elfin ears drooping. “…I fear it was not mere presumption. No doubt, I’ve made a fool of myself ever since my head injury.” She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand in an unladylike manner, looking young and ashamed. “I apologize as well, deeply.”

Lotor’s fingers tensed around the small vials, which were worth his weight in gold on the dark markets. His broad shoulders drooped the slightest fraction—that somehow, for as complicit as she was, Dayak had reminded them both that they were of different worlds. That his and Allura’s love was entirely unnatural, with any physical manifestation of it unwanted. His voice strained. “There is no need for your apology. Dayak does not know you as I do. Her interactions with nobles have been…less than pleasant. And, ah—I—I believe she was trying to help us, in her own way. With these.” The vials clinked in his hands. 

She raised miserable eyes to him, vulnerable and afraid. She managed a sad giggle. “Those are worth an awful lot, for her to waste them on a noble she hates.”

“After many years of hearing me speak of you, she knows I love you,” he said, his velvet voice even, eyes earnest along with the streak of a flush across his sharp cheeks. And then his face twisted, and he looked away. “But she does not understand the ways in which I do.”

Allura’s eyes watered, hard. She wrapped her arms around herself, looking small and young in that tick. “Perhaps you should tell her, and then sell those. I’m quite certain you could feed many mouths from the proceeds.” 

His eyes softened in a mix of pain and utter adoration. His throat tightened up. “Yes. We could.”

She gave him a watery smile.

And this time, the silence between them said everything—while a lingering Dayak hid in the shadows, her eyes dark with a turmoil of emotion as she listened in.

* * *

It was later that evening, Queen Allura of Altea found herself back in the simple rooms of the prince, kneeling down on the covered hay pallet, awkwardly holding the wide collar of her dress to her chest as she leaned over. Her white curls tumbled down her shoulder with the action. “Are you certain it’s alright that I take your bed, Lotor? I could sleep on the floor instead, you know. I could handle a night of it.”

A male scoff echoed off the stones. “As if I would allow a queen to sleep on stone.”

“Is that not what your own people desire, sir?”

Lotor stood at the entryway of the small room, before a broken mirror he’d stolen from a nobleman’s parlor room. He unlatched his armor, his eyes sliding to her. “For the wicked, yes. But not for you.”

Allura sunk into Lotor’s bed of covered Vulo furs, snuggling into the bunched blanket that was his pillow. She breathed in deeply and sighed in contentment. “You spoil me, then,” she cooed, voice muffled by the blanket. “And this bed smells so delightful. Like the forest.”

The Galran man puffed his chest out slightly, even though she could not see him. “You taught me to take pride in myself.” He pulled off his shoulder armor, revealing the corded muscle of his arm and the old, dark blue tunic he wore beneath. “We do not have the luxuries of the rich here, but I make do with fallen pine needles.” 

Allura snuggled into the blankets, pleased by the natural and smooth scent of Lotor’s musk mixed with the scent of the Galran pine trees. She closed her eyes, which began to burn hard. She’d longed to smell his pleasant scent for many years. And now it was everywhere, and the boy was a man, and he was so close to her but so far—

She turned on her side, her skirts twisting around her slightly. Her watery eyes gazed upon him. “I do remember when you smelled truly of trash.”

His lips twitched in a miserable fondness. “Yes, and I thought you a sorceress for controlling a faucet.” He leaned down, moving the plates of his armor to the side, his white hair swinging around him. He set the armor down beside her pile of necklaces and bracelets she’d taken off to sleep. “And a sorceress again for having an endless supply of Vulo.”

Allura patted the furs of the pallet, which were soft and brown. “It seems you’ve hunted your own supply.”

Lotor turned to her, his eyes a bit wicked. “I do love Vulo.”

She giggled, in a pained way, her fingers still stroking the furs. “Yes, I know.” And then she brushed tears from her eyes again.

His face faltered. “Is something wrong?” 

The queen failed to speak for a time, eyeing him, her heavy cheek leaning against the bunched blanket with his scent. Her voice wavered. “I’ve just missed you so. And here you are, and…yet, we still must be so distant simply because times are different.”

“ _We_ are different, princess,” he murmured to her, his voice straining in pain. “We’re no longer children.”

“I know.” She pressed her full lips together. “I do miss…old times, though.”

Lotor’s elfin ears flicked back. Without his armor, the tunic beneath him was tight and smooth, but it bore several gnarled threads from the claws of small Galran children, the hem tapering past his waist, the tunic cinched with an old belt. “I miss them too,” he confessed, his voice aching.

He then kneeled down beside the bed, his clawed fingers grabbing onto the blankets at the foot of the bed. He bit his lip, then unraveled them, protectively pulling them over the form of Queen Allura.

Her marked cheeks flushed pleasantly as she watched him.

Lotor’s face broke suddenly. “I’ve missed you, for so many years.” 

Allura could not help it. She reached out from the blankets, holding out her arms to invite him for an embrace, as she had so often done when they were children.

The man’s breath hitched, and he leaned against her, sinking into her arms on instinct alone—his one safe haven.

His strong arm wrapped around her as his cheek brushed against hers, his nose burying into the crook of her neck. Allura’s own small arms wrapped around him, her fingertips tightening into the rough cloth of his tunic.

Lotor squeezed his burning eyes shut, his heart cracking hard. His breath hitched as he breathed in her scent—finally, the scent of Allura of Altea, and the arms of Allura of Altea—

She leaned her cheek against the top of his head, her eyes watering. “I thought I’d died when I lost you.”

There was silence between them for several ticks after that. Lotor did not pull away from her embrace, but he allowed himself more and more to sink against her, simply breathing in her scent. His heart rose like a sun in his chest. “I thought I would die as well.”

Allura’s shaky breath turned with a giggle. “And I—I do think we could share this bed, actually. If we stay like this.”

That did it. Lotor pulled up slightly, his bloodshot eyes searching hers. He bit his lip, raising a hand to stroke her cheek. His lips twitched weakly. “A dangerous prospect.”

“Not dangerous to me.”

His claws brushed back a curl from her temple. “I could stay in your arms forever. But these walls are thin, and already my people talk.”

She looked up at him innocently, her face flushing. “I’ll behave if you do. And they will hear us snoring together very innocently.”

The twitch on his lips stretched wide in merriment. “Oh, my queen. How magnanimous you are.” He leaned down, instinctively brushing his nose against hers in a Galran sign of affection. And then he pulled away, hesitating. His lips were only inches from hers. “But I’m not certain I can share a bed as children do. You feel it as I do, don’t you?”

Her eyes searched his. “I _do_ feel it,” she whispered.

Like this, his chest was pressed against hers, with their clothes and a few blankets the only barriers between them.

His slit pupils narrowed, and a small mischief worked through. He swung his long legs over up onto the bed and then unceremoniously plopped over her with the full of his weight.

Allura’s bloodshot eyes blew wide, and she wheezed, coughing a bit as his long hair fell against her mouth.

“I’ve grown,” he murmured airily against her shoulder, his voice muffled slightly by the material of her dress. “You cannot share a bed with me like you once did.” 

The queen wheezed out an unsteady laugh, wiggling beneath him. “Oh, you’re ruining the moment—I thought you were talking of attraction, not weight.” But she still raised her hands to his hair, stroking his locks in adoration of him, in awe that this scrawny boy from her memory was a strong and grown man.

She felt his cheek stretch with a smile against her shoulder, his eyelashes ticking against her bare shoulder. His velvet voice rose up. “And I don’t recall my bed feeling quite so lumpy.” And then one of his clawed fingers poked a vulnerable side.

Allura squeaked in a squeal, her body squirming beneath his.

Lotor pulled away from her, sliding off the top of her to sink on his side by her, his bloodshot eyes crinkling in delight.

She turned her face. Like this, they were sharing the same blanket as their pillow, their faces inches apart. “Well, I certainly don’t remember such tension between our faces, all those years ago when we laid like this together.”

It fell silent between them.

Lotor swallowed down emotion, then whispered, “This is why we should not share a bed, I think.”

She pursed her lips, hesitant. “And if you were a prince of your father’s court still? Would you?”

In the increasing darkness of the outside, the glow of his eyes caught the meager light of the candles at the entrance. “If you were willing, yes. For I would have already made my bid to be your suitor.”

Allura searched his eyes, her face flushing in delight as she smiled. “I would be delighted if you were my suitor.”

The admission was so effortless and pure, it inspired his own smile. It was a watery one.

His clawed hand reached for hers.

Their fingers intertwined.

“There will still be rumors if I stay with you like this,” he whispered. “And we will be tempted to use the Rubalat.”

“I know.” Her voice pulled in a mix of humor and pain. “But what does it matter if your people talk? I know how good Galran ears are. No doubt they hear us now and how good we’re being.”

“No doubt.” He relaxed more fully on his side, searching her eyes. Their intertwined hands rested between them over the blankets. “We’re being very good yet, I suppose.”

“Yes.” Her heart cracked in a happy way. She squeezed his hand.

In the silence, they could both hear the murmurs of the many residents of the Court, scattered throughout the old building. There were a few babies crying, an old man laughing hard at a joke, and a song being hummed by the sewing circle on the first level, wafting up through the air.

Two Rubalat vials rested innocently by his armor and by her necklaces. 

Lotor closed his eyes, leaning toward the princess. “I could sleep next to you like this,” he whispered. 

Allura sighed, her voice catching with an ache. “I’d like that very much.”

His nose nearly touched the tip of her elfin ear, his breath a soft puff as it once had been when they were children. He breathed in deep her scent and all of its tones, his white brows knitting together in reverence. “Good night, princess.”

He squeezed her hand gently.

And as the world around them darkened, the two wayward royals lay together, as close as they dared to be with their two worlds between them. Allura turned to face him, her nose brushing against his. “Good night, Lotor.” And for as deeply as she desired him, there was something innocent between them as well—a full trust. Allura breathed in his scent, closing her eyes as she sunk against him, desperate to cling to what she could, for as long as possible. 

With her proximity, her scent of juniberries dusted across his skin and hair and bed, eventually lulling even Lotor into a pleasant dream, his fingers relaxing around hers.

* * *

By morning, little eyes peered from around the blanket that functioned as the door to the Prince’s room. “What are they doing?” came a whisper.

Another small child whispered back, narrowing her eyes. “They sleep.”

“Is Queen Allura his mate now?”

“Is she _our_ Queen now?”

One of the other children disappointedly pulled back from the entrance, shaking her head. “No mate scent. Not like mama and papa.”

The others whined softly.

And the sound inspired one of Lotor’s elfin ears to flick, and then he awakened. His sharp, alien eye opened, peering out beyond the entrance.

The children suddenly scattered backwards, falling silent.

Lotor blinked blearily, and then he froze. Allura had curled in against him in sleep, tucked beneath his arm, her nose buried against his chest, with a little bloom of drool from her mouth. Her white curls had haloed around them in an array, and the sunlight from the window cast a bright glow over her, catching her hair and her cheek markings.

He stared at her in a bleary awe, as if she were a dream.

Her brow wrinkled with the loss of the heat of his arm, her dark skin goose-bumping slightly. But she did not yet awaken and instead burrowed closer to him with a soft, little grump.

The Prince of the Court hesitated, his heart swelling. He hesitantly moved to brush a curl from Allura’s forehead.

And for a time, he simply reveled in the moment.

The children peeked back around the blanket in curiosity.

Then Lotor leaned down over Allura, murmuring in her ear, “Wake up, princess. We have visitors.”

Allura’s relaxed face twitched. She grumped against his chest, her voice a vibration near his heart. “No, more sleep.”

He huffed in amusement. And he was about to tease her lightly when suddenly, there were more footsteps at the entrance. Heavier ones.

One Dayak thrust the blanket aside, her eyes sharp and displeased—and tense. “The emperor,” she announced with a sharp edge, inspiring a flinch from Allura, “has delivered 500 barrels of grain at our doors by way of a few soldiers, but now he is marching here with an army to reclaim the queen.”

Allura pulled away from Lotor in a frightened daze, caught between mild confusion over her surroundings and surprise at the voice of Dayak. Her too-wide collar fell down one of her bare shoulders with the action, and she reached for blankets in a flurry, owl-eyed.

Dayak delicately sniffed the air, then slid her eyes to the untouched bottles of Rubalat. Her ears flicked in surprise. Her gaze flew questioning to Lotor, who then looked away.

The bleary-eyed man instead tried to brush sleep from his eyes. “All 500 barrels?”

“Yes. Our sentries have confirmed. It’s time to turn over your ransom.” Dayak’s brow raised in a mild, morbid curiosity. “Though she still carries your scent, despite you two failing to mate.”

Allura’s jaw dropped. She stared at Dayak in surprise.

Lotor retorted, “Do not act disappointed.”

“I am not,” deadpanned Dayak, who turned away, stiffly tapping her rod in her hand. “I merely desire the safety of our Court, which you endanger with your schemes as of late. And if you did not plan to mate with her, then surely you should also know, this woman would not carry your scent if she did not sleep in your bed. With you.”

The queen’s lips pursed as she eyed the old woman.

Dayak unquestionably met her eyes, measuring her up. Still curious.

Allura dared to speak, looking a bit frazzled and tired still. “Before you found him, he slept in my bed many nights,” she declared, somewhat indignant. “We’ll simply do what we did then.”

“And what was that?” Dayak demanded.

The bleary-eyed queen turned to Lotor, forgetting all about her fallen dress collar. “I’m quite certain you don’t have lotions and perfume, but I believe you _do_ have those pine needles. I will use your bathing facilities if you would not mind crushing a few needles against this dress. Maybe the children should help you, to better hide your scent.”

His eyes searched her. “Of course, princess. But you will have to undress once more.”

An almost pleased blush swept across her dark cheeks this time, reddening her marks.

Dayak’s face faulted, and she turned away in a grump.

* * *

Queen Allura of Altea quickly washed herself in the bathing station, with one of the small Miracle children happily pumping water for her on occasion, which rained a pleasant array of water across her shoulders. She scrubbed herself with the harsh soap available, which smelled terribly bland and perfect for washing Lotor from her. “How goes the dress?” she called out.

From beyond the metal privacy walls, Lotor watched over another slew of children, who giggled as they crushed pine needles into the wrinkling dress of Allura’s. “Swimmingly,” he responded, velvet voice dry. He leaned against the nearby pillar, crossing his arms in a mix of fondness and dread. “The emperor will believe you were in the forest alongside many young ones.”

Allura tried to smile about it, but it faltered on her face as she stared at the rough soup in her hand. “Very good.” Her voice caught in a strange way.

Emperor Zarkon was on his way to collect her. This surreal dream would be over soon. And her time by the side of the mysterious prince—her old playmate—would end as well.

The water from the spout was cold.

She watched the rain water slip down her skin to the metal drains below, and her eyes began to burn. She stood there in the midst of Lotor’s inventions and his rag-tag home, and suddenly she did not want to leave—even for all the creature comforts of the world.

But she dutifully washed her arms and legs and hair, scrubbing off Lotor’s scent from her. And she dried herself with one of the threadbare towels tossed over the privacy wall.

And when her patchwork dress appeared over the wall, she grabbed onto it, breath hitching as she pulled herself into it. “I shall require help with the loops,” she called out, voice wavering.

Lotor’s smooth velvet returned to her, carrying a strain of its own. “When you are ready, one of the children will help you. I think it prudent that I no longer touch you. I will not have the emperor question your integrity or know my scent.”

“Of course.” She swallowed hard, then held the dress to her as she opened up the privacy door, the back of her dress still open at the back, her wet curls a matted stream around her. Were she in any other society, she might have felt more self-conscious. But the children who’d helped roll pine needles stood by, clambering to help the queen once again.

One grabbed her hand and helped her to sit down on a hay pallet. There was a gaggle of coos and whines as the children squabbled to help her, and even the watery-eyed Allura could not help her own giggle as little fingers moved to button her in.

Lotor watched from a short distance, his tunic still lightly wrinkled from sleep and hair curling at the ends. His cheeks carried a roughness from not yet shaving that morning, and the white scruff made his cheek glimmer in the light. “I wish that you could stay here. But I must return you as I promised.”

She searched his eyes, her face pulling in pain. “You could always ransom me for another 500 barrels of grain,” she teased softly.

His lips quirked. “Will you miss me, when you return to society?”

The queen face-faulted. “Of course, you scoundrel. How dare you suggest otherwise.” In the sunlight, her eyes misted. “I thought I’d lost you forever, and now I must lose you again.”

Lotor’s eyes held her gaze as his face faltered. “You will never lose me,” he promised. His velvet voice had roughened. “I will be there for you, in the shadows of things. For as long as I live.”

The queen fell silent for a time, unsettled with questions that were not appropriate for the ears of the Miracle children helping her dress. A few of them hesitantly raised up her necklaces and bracelets that had been brought down from Lotor’s room.

“And we’ll be here too!” squeaked a small child.

She turned her attention to the little boy holding up the necklace, and she gave him a delighted, watery smile. “Oh, yes. I shall have many great stories to tell the emperor, of how talented and wonderful his people are.”

The boy preened, his little milk fangs glimmering in the light, his eyes wide in awe. “Emperor?”

“Yes.” Allura tilted her head slightly as she accepted the necklaces, pulling them on one by one. “He is a very kind man. He loves his people, and all little children.”

One of the children peeked around her shoulder, red eyes wide. “Does he? Mama say he bring weapons here. They march. Many soldiers.”

She reached up and patted the child’s furred cheek. “Not to harm you.”

“Certainly not to celebrate _me_ ,” retorted Lotor with a wry humor. But there was an increasing tension in his shoulders. He sighed, then pulled away. “Forgive me, Queen Allura. I must ensure my people have orders for conducting this exchange.”

The use of her title was so formal, it set her back in a mild surprise. Her elfin ears drooped. “…And is this your goodbye to me?”

The handsome Galran paused. His blue eyes—so similar to Zarkon’s and yet so lit with life—narrowed upon her. A deep pain worked through him. “A goodbye suggests we will never again meet.” His voice grew halted. “But we _will_. I promise it.”

And then he walked away, his white hair a flicker in the light, like a ghost from a memory.

Allura stared at him, her eyes suddenly blurring hard.

One of the children finished the final loop of her dress’s back, and she whispered sorrowfully to the others, “Oh, can’t you just stay with us, pretty Queen? Please?”

* * *

Emperor Zarkon of the Galra stood in full battle armor with a multitude of forces, his face dark, eyes red-hot in anger and anxiety. Five-hundred barrels of grain now rested at the entrance of the Court of Miracles, which loomed before him against the late-morning sun.

He was flanked by several squads of solders carrying blasters and more traditional weaponry.

His voice a sharp boom. “You will hold your position. Do not fire unless I give orders.” And then he turned to the Court, raising his voice even louder. “Where is the Queen Allura of Altea? I met your demands in full over two vargas ago. If you have any honor, you will release her immediately.”

There were several ticks of silence.

The old factory machinery glinted dark as clouds fell over the inner city. The blanketed entrance to the Court waved in the wind.

It seemed as though the entire structure were abandoned, and that the Court was merely a wishful dream of the poor—

Then, movement.

Queen Allura of Altea appeared from beyond the blanketed entrance, walking toward the opening of the abandoned gates. Her eyes were watery and cheeks flushed. Her hair was wet as though she had bathed, her feet bare. And she wore a wild patchwork dress that was all too big, cinched with cloth. Her neck and arms boasted a dozen odd bracelets and necklaces made from scrap metal.

Zarkon’s breath caught at the sight of her. He tightened his grip on the hilt of his sword, prepared to draw it in fear that this was all yet a trap.

But no Blades appeared with swords or arrows. No wild children threw rocks or cups of hot oil. It seemed the mysterious Prince of the Court was honoring his bargain. 

Allura shakily walked toward him, her eyes bloodshot but her body otherwise whole.

So very, very whole.

The emperor’s eyes began to blur at the sight. His voice hoarsened. “Allura.”

She looked smaller without her jeweled baubles and great dresses, her strange clothing hiding her form to make her appear even younger than she was. The closer she walked, the more he and the soldiers could see the tears streaking down her cheeks. “Zarkon.” Her sweet alto was hitched.

A few soldiers moved to secure her, but the emperor raised his hand to stop them, tense. “Do not invoke their scouts,” he hissed. “They will see attack where there is none.”

Every step of one of Allura’s bare feet was pained.

Zarkon raised out his clawed, gauntleted hand. “Do not fear,” he called to her. “Take my hand, and I shall bring you home.”

Allura’s dark fingers raised. They shook lightly. “Don’t shoot at them,” she begged, her voice tight. “Many are children here. Infants.”

“I will not give orders to shoot,” Zarkon promised, still holding out his hand, “as long as their leader holds his word.”

The queen began to cry as she stepped toward him, her bare feet squishing into the mud of the dirt road. Her fingers brushed against his armored hand.

And then suddenly, his hand tightened against her wrist, and he pulled her to him.

Allura broke, her face twisting with tears for all too many reasons as she felt fatherly arms wrap around her, and as the soldiers converged on them, raising shields to protect from potential arrows. The next several ticks were a blur of Zarkon protectively moving her toward a heavily guarded transport carriage. And the many soldiers converged around them, turning to march, their shields still raised.

No arrows rained down.

The Court remained silent, with many small eyes watching owlishly from the windows.

* * *

The ransomed Queen Allura soon sat on a plush bench inside the transport, breath hitching as Zarkon sat down opposite of her, pulling off his armored gloves.

His red eyes had misted hard. “Allura.” He reached out, gently cupping her cheeks to inspect her teary eyes. “Are you well? Did they hurt you, child?”

For a time, she failed to speak, simply staring in awe at the man who had become a guardian to her. Who bore the same eye structure as the mysterious Prince.

Zarkon’s plated face tightened when she failed to respond, and he gently sniffed the air to inspect her scent, stroking her cheek.

Allura blinked, still in a daze. “I’m not hurt,” she whispered. Her eyes watered hard again. “The—the Prince was…kind. He um, gave me this dress. And his people made me these baubles.”

Zarkon held her chin tight, searching her eyes. “Why did he take your dress of mourning? Did he force you or humiliate you in any way? I smell the forest and many scents upon you.”

Allura’s breath hitched. “He did not hurt me. I promise.” Her eyes slid sideways as she recalled the lilt of mischief on full lips, with purple hands bunching into black velvet. “He simply wanted the material.”

Zarkon brushed back her hair with a paternal affection, but his eyes were sharp in calculation. “Why are you wet as though you have bathed? Did they bathe you to hide their actions against you? Where are your shoes? Did they take them so you could not run?”

She swallowed hard. “I promise you, I am very well. They took good care of me.” Her muddied, bare feet scooted beneath the hem of her patchwork dress. Her reddened cheeks flamed in embarrassment. “I took off my shoes to sleep and to bathe. In the rush of things, I…I don’t know what happened to them.”

Those red eyes, as demonic as they could be in anger, held a deep, haunted fear in them. His clawed fingers pulled away from her as if it hurt him to do so. It was then she saw how hard he’d aged in one single night. His eyes were bagged, the plates down his nose no longer glimmering, but dull from stress and colorless.

It took the emperor several ticks to speak again.

His voice hardened. “Your shoes will be replaced, as will your dress. It will come from the monthly aid I provide that lot of ungrateful swine.” His bloodshot, watery eyes slid to the windows of the carriage. His claws were sharp in the light as he clenched his great palm. “I will not tolerate their dishonor of your station.”

She hesitated, then pleaded, “Most of the people living there are desperately impoverished and see no aid. Please, do not punish them on my account.”

His red eyes lit hot in righteous anger and pain. “They bite the hand that feeds. Look at you. Our greatest patron, and look how they have traumatized you all for barrels of grain.”

“Zarkon—”

“—I have already lost one child to the evils of this world,” he declared to her, voice breaking. “I will _not_ lose another.” He looked down at his lap, his broad shoulders sinking inward. “I can’t.”

Allura’s heart cracked at that. She reached out to his “You haven’t lost me. And truly, I believe your son is still with us, in the ways he can be.”

The emperor. His voice was caught with deep pain and fury. “My son is dead. But you will tell me all you know about this….Prince who has stolen his title. For now, I have many revenges to exact upon him.”

It fell silent between them.

Allura’s heart skipped in fear. “Oh, but why would you pursue him so?”

“He kidnapped you,” Zarkon retorted gruffly. “Is that not reason enough? All is clear now. The street rats have militarized under my nose.”

Her fingers tightened into the patchwork of her dress. “B-but…he saved me, from the bandits who truly desired me harm.”

Red eyes flickered to her, with pain. “If he were so honorable, he would not have kidnapped you after.”

“It was to help his people,” she pleaded. “You must understand, how desperate so many are within all of these droughts.”

“They are _my_ people to help, not his.” Zarkon’s voice cut sharply, and his eyes now focused on her with an increasing consternation. “Why do you defend him, daughter of Alfor? I understand your heart for those who suffer. But this man commits great crime to help them." 

She froze a bit on the bench, swallowing hard. Even in that moment, she could feel Lotor’s strong body wrapped around her own, the Vulo furs so soft and lulling beneath her—

Her cheeks flushed oddly. “W-well, um…” Her elfin ears drooped in a panic. She could not admit to his identity—Lotor had been clear about keeping such secret. She looked down, nervously tapping fingers together. "All the aid we have given these people. I did not see one sign of it within the Court of Miracles." She looked up, her eyes misting. "There was so much destitution, Zarkon. So much terrible poverty. All of the medicines, and fabrics for clothing, the seeds and fruits for gardens...None of it was there." 

The emperor face-faulted. “….What? That is impossible." 

She leaned back against the bench. Her flushed, teary cheek sunk against plush velvet. "The Prince speaks of evil vassals," she said hesitantly. 

"Do not believe what the bandit tells you." Zarkon's face hardened in worry. "He smears the honor of the nobility to justify his own deficiencies." 

And for the first time, the queen turned her to him, her eyes lighting up with a righteous pain.

* * *

Meanwhile, deep within alley ways, one dark shadow trailed along the great entourage of Emperor Zarkon and the recovered Queen Allura. His boots were a soft patter against the dirt, his white hair and dark armor only a flash between buildings.

The fallen Prince Lotor watched as Allura disappeared, toward the royal Castle, which loomed at the top of a great hill.

His quiver of arrows rustled against his back as he hesitated behind a tavern alley, his yellow sclerae brightening with emotion. He raised a clawed hand to his chest, where his heart beat beneath the upside-down star of the Blades.

Beneath his armor, Lotor could still feel Allura’s heat against him and the soft puff of her breath as she dreamed, her form curled against his.

In his darkest of dreams, he imagined what could have happened if Allura had stayed—with her, laying on his bed of furs and staring up at him with those big, innocent eyes, both of their lips shining with the extract of Rubalat as he leaned down to kiss her, her skirts bunching as he pressed his hips against hers—her sweet voice hitching with _his_ name in the most obscene gasps—

Lotor squeezed his eyes shut. His breath hitched. He leaned his hand against the wooden panel of tavern that hid him, his claws scratching into it, to rid himself of the fantasy of soft skin and curls—

He bared his fangs in irritation of himself, only for his thoughts to fragment at the sound of a…meow?

His sharp eyes snapped to his right, and he grabbed onto a dagger from his belt, raising it to the source.

But sitting in the dirt was no great enemy. Instead, it was a scrawny little feline, its yellow eyes wide as it raised black paws onto his boots, clambering for food and warmth.

Lotor stared back at the half-starved cat, seeing an innocent soul unable to sustain itself in the midst of the food deserts. Cats were an invasive species from Altea, and only certain traits were desirable in noble houses, which left many to starve. A chill worked through him, and he backed away, lowering his dagger. 

The cat whined more pathetically, its little chirps a beg for food and touch.

The Prince re-sheathed his dagger with a sigh, running a frazzled hand through his long hair. “Don’t look at me like that.” And then he turned back to watch the royal entourage, only to realize that they were gone from sight. “You distract me from my objective.”

The little cat meowed again.

Lotor narrowed his eyes toward the distance, his face pulling in pain. “No, I’m ensuring the princess makes it back to the castle. And that the soldiers do not turn back to massacre the Court.” His eyes shifted in worry. “I know how emperors can be.” 

Another chirp and a paw on his leg.

The Galran man did not look back down. “Don’t look to me for salvation,” he warned, voice distant. “My people would eat you. I’ve half a mind to eat you myself.”

The cat whined, rubbing against his leg, its long, black tail with a little floof of orange wrapping around his calf.

Lotor looked down then. His face faltered as the damned thing began to purr against him, already establishing trust bonds.

The great Prince of the Court of Miracles hesitated, then leaned down and picked up the scrawny little animal, eyeing it. Dust and dirt fell from its black fur. The cat happily hung from his gentle hands. A muddy paw came to reset on his vambrace, and the little being wiggled to sniff him curiously, in delight of something.

“No doubt, you sense Allura upon me.” He gently tucked the little cat into his arms, looking back once more at the disappearing entourage. “Or else, you smell the pine needles from the forests.” His face faltered. “If you would even know what those are, so deep in the city.”

Against his fingers, the feline’s starved ribs puffed in and out. The tiny thing rested its chin against his elbow in full trust, nuzzling its body against his warmth.

Lotor swallowed down emotion, suddenly feeling a swell of protectiveness for the unwanted creature. He raised his hand to brush some of the dirt from its pronounced spine, as if it were his own spine. He turned back, watching the soldiers fully disappear into the gates beyond the inner city, taking with them one precious Queen Allura and the hulking shadow who was his own father, the emperor.

Allura had assured him that the emperor was a good man, who cared for more than just stone babies, even if his vassals did not. 

It was time to test this.

* * *

A varga later, a tired Emperor Zarkon unlatched his shoulder armor in his personal chambers. As he stood before his mirror and his many opulent decorations, he discovered a small, rolled-up piece of paper at the junction between metal plates. It was an innocent thing, without any outside marking or seal. The paper itself was old and shriveled. The material seemed as if it were torn from a market banner.

The emperor hesitated at the sight of it, pausing in the middle of his undress. He lowered the shoulder armor, then plucked the paper from where it had bunched against a buckle and leather strap. “What is—?”

And then he unraveled it, his eyes widening.

_Emperor Zarkon of the Galran Empire:_

_I will accept an audience with you one varga past sundown, in the old temple of the Druids. Arrive alone._

_-The Prince_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know it's been a while since I last updated. It feels like a whole year has passed, even though it's been only a month or two. For anyone still interested in this crazy story, thank you for returning to check it out! 
> 
> I'm safe but have had a difficult month. I hope you're all safe and healthy too.
> 
> Please let me know your thoughts, questions, constructive criticisms, or requests in a review! Thanks!


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to the following awesome people for reviewing last time: 
> 
> LunarMagnolia: Ahh thank you, dear, as always for your kind reviews! I’m so glad you enjoyed the additions of Dayak and Kova—and I’m sure we’ll see more of them as we move along in the story! 
> 
> Kitani: I’m sorry I made you wait so long for another chapter, so I hope you’re still doing well despite all the craziness going on in the real world! Ahh I really enjoy writing this particular version of Lotura since they do have that very strong base of pure love defining their actions. And gosh, I’d love for Allura to adopt all the Court children, haha. Thank you again for your support both here and with my DP fics! I really appreciate it! 
> 
> Wallflwr97: Gosh LOL, I feel the same way about just shoving their faces together bwahaha. But yaaas, I know we’ll see more of Dayak soon, and certainly more lotura tenderness and yearning! Thank you again for all of your reviews and support! 
> 
> MadelineL: Oh, you know something gonna give *waggles brows* Thanks for the review! 
> 
> KairaB: I hope you managed to get your internet access cleared up by now! And guh, yeah, I feel bad for lotura here as well! I hope they can get together soon too! And yaaas, emotional support kitty! I really love Kova and what a good lil kitty can add to a story, haha. As always, thank you so much for reading and reviewing! 
> 
> Asennnaa: Dayak is in a league of her own, and I love her, haha. And gosh, yeah, I’d love for Lotura to never have to say goodbye ever again. ;A; they’re just too precious, I almost can’t handle it, haha. As far as Zarkon goes, oof, he’s definitely on an arc too—and we’ll see more of him soon!! Thank you again for your reviews and support!! 
> 
> And now, with review replies over, onto the show! **Please note that this chapter lives up to its M rating and contains graphic content meant for adults. Please review tags for awareness if you haven't already, thank you!**

Back at the castle, a worried Honerva suddenly stood from her throne, her purple and gold skirts a flutter about her. “Allura!” Her aged face broke hard at the sight of the younger woman appearing within the throne room, wearing a somewhat oversized patchwork dress, her bare feet muddy and eyes bloodshot. “Oh, my dear child!”

The Empress Honerva had never moved past the death of her infant son, but in that moment, such a joy shined from her watery eyes. She gathered the girl into her arms, her strength as strong as any Altean’s.

Allura’s eyes widened as she wheezed, the air whooshing out of her. “Honerva,” she greeted, voice strangling in a watery laugh. She moved to embrace the empress back, a genuine ache in her, in want for a mother’s love.

Honerva was a stiff person, her hugs never lasting too long despite the deep well of emotion within her. She pulled away, grabbing onto Allura’s chin, smoothing back her frizzed curls. “Are you alright?” she whispered. “Were you hurt in any way?”

Allura stared at her fondly. “No,” she said, breaking. “I’m perfectly well.”

The empress’s face tightened. She glanced around the throne room in worry, then began to pull Allura along toward the sleeping hall. “Let us get you to your chambers, where you can bathe and put on a nice dress, and we can toss this strange bag that they have clothed you in.”

“But I like this dress,” Allura confessed. The various thread necklaces and bullet beads clinked as she walked—a cacophony of sound, neither bell-like or entirely unpleasant.

Honerva’s breath hitched, her fingers strengthening around Allura’s arm. “All will be well, child,” she promised. Some part of her mind’s eye flashed back to running through the sleeping hall years ago, feeling that something was wrong—so terribly wrong the door to—with Lotor’s nursery hanging open—

—blood pooling on the flood—

The mother squeezed her eyes shut for a brief second to dispel the memory, continuing to guide Allura to her private rooms. “All will be well,” she said again, voice wavering.

Allura did not resist Honerva’s protective grip on her wrist. Her white curls bounced against her patchwork dress. “But all is not well. There were many people in the Court,” she said, voice in a strangle. “So many little ones with starving bellies. The poverty was unprecedented.”

Honerva opened the door to Allura’s private apartments with a frenzied push of buttons on the security keypad. She seemed entirely distracted from listening, eyes haunted. The door slid open, and she pulled Allura in, shutting the door behind them.

Allura made a strangled noise in the back of her throat, looking up at the empress in surprise.

Honerva’s eyes were misted with tears. “You can be honest with me here,” she whispered. “Where no one will overhear. Did the so-called Prince or any of his men force themselves on you, child?” She then gently raised up Allura’s arm, inspecting for bruises. “Did they attempt to mark you in any way?”

The queen swallowed hard, her bloodshot eyes focusing on Honerva. “I promise,” she said, “that no harm came to me. I told Zarkon the same.”

Honerva’s frail hands slipped from Allura’s youthful arm. The mother trembled.

Allura could see it in her eyes—Honerva did not believe her. Being Altean herself, she knew what purity meant in their culture, and the lengths to which some people went to present themselves as pure when they no longer were.

The mother pressed her lips together, breath hitching. “Let’s get you to the bath. The servants have been called away to stand as additional battalions against a potential attack on the castle—it is a perfect cover for you, dear.”

Allura’s voice strangled in her throat. “But I’ve nothing to hide.”

Honerva’s nimble fingers began to help unloop her from the strange patchwork dress. “You do, I’m afraid. We’re suppressing the news of your kidnapping as much as possible.”

“What? Why would—?”

“Once the stories reach the ears of our shared people, your name as Queen will be tarnished by scandal,” Honerva cut in, voice pained. Then, with the last loop undone, the mother pulled away in a daze, moving to the great baths to draw water and soaps. “Altea is a place of many great things, but it is punishing to be a woman there. I know what your people will demand—that you marry and conceive immediately to preserve the royal line. And I know you, child. You do not wish to marry so soon.”

Allura held up the collar of her dress, breath hitching as she pulled off her various necklaces from the children of the Court, setting them upon a dresser. “The people of Altea already demand those things. Surely they will see soon enough that I’m not—” She swallowed hard. “That nothing happened.”

Honerva kneeled before the stone baths, turning metal knobs. Soft, warm water stormed from a spout. Her fingers shook. “I am simply buying you time to ensure that is the case.” And she pulled from her robes a small, little vial of liquid.

Rubalat, the contraceptive.

Allura stared at it, eyes wide.

The mother pulled away from the bath steps, moving toward Allura and stroking her cheek. “I will choose a beautiful dress for you, and we will celebrate your safe return,” she whispered. “But if you need anything at all, child, I can keep it in confidence. Just between us.”

Allura hesitated, her eyes beginning to mist in a mix of emotion—hilarity, that truly nothing had happened—disquiet, that it almost had—and fear, that she’d longed for something to happen between her and the Prince. And here she stood before Lotor’s _mother_ , unable to tell her that Lotor yet lived, and was very handsome and very honorable as the Prince of the Court.

She swallowed hard, looking down at herself. “I have nothing to hide,” she said again, voice wavering. “So I will not drink that Rubalat, and you will know then that I speak the truth.”

Honerva’s gold eyes slipped to her briefly, and a crack appeared in her worried face.

Allura awkwardly held the collar of the open dress to her, and she leaned down, grabbing the vial. She gently placed it back in Honerva’s hand, wrapping the woman’s fingers around it.

The mother’s breath hitched. She looked up, searching Allura’s eyes.

“The Prince,” Allura pressed, voice halted, “was honorable to me.”

And it was then that Honerva began to cry, leaning against her with a worry and an increasing relief. She pulled away from Allura, the sacred vial of Rubalat held tight in her grasp. “He does not deserve the title of Prince,” she said, turning away with an unsteadiness toward the larger. “For that is the royal title of my son. But if you can reject this vial, then…I will believe you. That perhaps this man of the streets is not as dishonorable as I feared.”

Allura called out to her, voice soft, “The people of the Court of Miracles are not dishonorable at all. Please, Honerva. Look at those necklaces the children made for me, when they could not afford to offer me anything. They _wanted_ to honor me as well.”

Honerva moved to the dresser where Allura had pulled off her various thread and bullet necklaces and bracelets. A lithe finger lifted up a rough necklace with a few metal casings.

And then her heart hardened. “My son never learned arts and crafts,” she whispered, “for the Court killed him. And that was after their assassin won the trust of this family.”

And then she slipped away, holding on tight to the one necklace and to the Rubalat vial while Allura undressed fully, suddenly longing for the soft Vulo furs of Lotor’s makeshift bed and his warm hands cradling hers.

* * *

One varga past sundown, Emperor Zarkon slipped through the gardens behind the castle, carrying a large broadsword in hand. His armor streaked with oranges and purples from the pathway lights. The old temple of the Druids loomed in the darkness ahead, its tall structures still glowing purple from the tower windows. 

The structure had been abandoned several years back because of an earthquake that cracked the foundation. The Druids of Daibazaal were excessively particular that their foundations not be cracked—as a physical manifestation of their spiritual beliefs—and so Zarkon had dutifully agreed to build a second temple using more advanced architecture.

It left the old temple as part of the increasing gardens of the Castle, growing over as ruins where flowers and bushes grew—where Zarkon once imagined his happy, little son giggling as he ran beneath the ceilings with the inscriptions of the heavens—

The old wooden door had rotted away from acid rain.

Zarkon stepped in, his eyes dark as he searched for the mysterious figure known as the Prince of the Court of Miracles. He raised his sword in anticipation of an attack. His combat boots created harsh echoes through the main hall of the temple. The pillars with sacred inscriptions spanned before him.

Soon, he saw it.

Movement.

His red eyes narrowed upon the rafters, lit hot with hate, and he called out, “You dare to endanger the life of Queen Allura, and then demand an audience with me?”

The air thickened with a pause. 

Then, a smooth, velvet voice raised up in a lilt from the rafters, drifting down to the floor where Zarkon stood. “Did I not return her to you unharmed, as promised?”

A chill of disquiet worked up Emperor Zarkon’s spine. This was not the voice of a roughened bandit—but something far more unsettling and calculated.

He could not see the man, save for his armored knee and a long leg that hung from the rafters, ending with a sleek combat boot. The man himself wore a cloak, which hid most of his body and his face as well, until all that shone from the darkness was two glowing-yellow eyes.

A Galran man.

Zarkon inhaled deeply, narrowing his eyes. Beneath the scent of the invading nature and yellow and red grasses streaming between the stone, he could smell the mysterious man. He reeked of spices. “You hid obscure scent from me,” he snarled. “A sign that you are a deceiver with many things to hide.”

There was a soft, merry sigh. “Ah, I have many things to hide, yes. But I am not the deceiver.” 

Zarkon tilted his head, raising his sword higher. “Do not address me in a patronizing tone. If you have issue with me, then do not hide in darkness—but meet me here on the stones as a man, and fight in honorable rite of combat.”

A gloved hand raised up, a dark metal vambrace catching the moonlight. “I’ve a proposition for you instead,” came a smooth murmur. “The fact is, great emperor, your vassals run your state. You pass laws that no one obeys. You hold court with liars and thieves who are no better than my own people…but are simply better-dressed.” Clawed fingers ticked against the metal rafter. “How does such an empire stand, I wonder.”

The emperor’s face darkened in fury. “You—”

“—Oh, that’s right.” The deep, velvet voice turned in a pout. “Queen Allura of Altea pays for your sins and the sins of your vassals, offering the very reparations you refuse.”

“You dare speak to me of sin and reparation?” Zarkon hissed. Emotion overcame him so greatly that a vein appeared on his forehead and down his throat, pulsing. “You appropriate my dead son’s title. You kidnap Allura. You lie and kill without remorse—and you seduce my people with promises that being your soldier is better than an honest living.”

“An honest living?” the man echoed. That voice of his—so haunting and echoing, so unnaturally smooth—hardened with a rasp. “What living exists for those like me? To suffer in your mines for paltry wages you tax heavily? To build luxury spaceships for your spoiled vassals while we die of starvation?” Righteous anger overcame him. “To be raped by your vassals and beaten for entertainment? Is this the life you wish for your people?”

The emperor snarled, “You have frustrated the crown’s attempts to help to the poor by hoarding resources and punishing my vassals for being born what they are. If any suffer, it is _your_ fault.”

A clawed hand slammed down on a beam in anger, unsettling years of dust.

And then suddenly, a dark form lithely fell from the rafters in a flutter of a black cloak. The form landed on its feet like a cat, face hidden by a hood.

Silver flashed.

Zarkon’s eyes widened as he pivoted, his broadsword clashing hard with a thinner but wickedly sharp, long blade.

The cloaked figure was slimmer and shorter than he. The Prince backstepped, thrusting again.

Another clash.

Zarkon’s lip curled in a snarl, and he pulled away, swinging hard. The thick blade of his broadsword caught the hood of the Prince as he backed away into darkness.

And then suddenly, the hood deflated, until it was nothing more than a piece of cloth hanging lifelessly from the edge of his sword. Zarkon stared at it, bewildered. And then a gloved hand slammed over his eyes, and he sputtered, only for the cloak to suddenly be wound around him.

Zarkon struggled against him and the heavy material of the cloak. The Prince’s voice was a sharp snap his ear. “I will offer you proof that your vassals have deceived you. In exchange, you will strip them of power.” 

“Release me,” Zarkon hissed, his muscles bulging hard as his hand ripped through the material, his sword slicing the rough fabric—into something else metal. “Swine!”

But by the time the material fell from Zarkon’s eyes, the temple of the Druids was abandoned and silent, save for his own unsteady breath and the wind whistling through a broken window.

The emperor froze there, his pointed ears perking in suspicion of all sound. “You are a coward to run away,” he boomed, his plated face hardening. But his joints were not as spritely as they once were, and a chill worked up Zarkon’s spine—that this strange Prince could have killed him.

On the tip of his broadsword was the color of red blood.

Zarkon stared at it in consternation. The sacred temple began to smell of it, the metallic scent tinging his sensitive nose, and suddenly, his brows knitted together as his mind’s eye flashed to the sight of a cradle dripping in blood—

The scent of blood, no matter the being, was always the same.

Always that same, sickeningly rich metal.

His fingers trembled as he leaned down, grabbing onto the fallen cloak to wipe the blood away.

* * *

Meanwhile that night, the Queen Allura of Altea slipped out from her bedtime bath. She wrapped a long, fluffy towel about her, water slipping down her legs and shoulders as she descended the steps in an air of perfumed soaps. Her wet locks hung about her, curling against her dark skin and cheek.

It was then she heard a tapping noise.

Her ears flicked back, her eyes widening. She hesitantly dried herself with the towel, grabbing for her white silk robe.

_Tap tap tap tap—_

It was coming from the bedroom window. She moved forward in a flurry, forgetting about her own state of undress, a curiosity overcoming her. The planet Daibazaal was known for tapping birds, but it almost sounded like—

—the slight scrape of claws with each tap—

She tentatively pulled aside the long, purple curtains, revealing a man outside her window. Her eyes blew even wider—the room lights reflected dark blue Blades armor and white hair and purple hands. “Lotor?”

Her heart skipped.

Her fingers began to flail as she sought to unlock the window, shoving it up. “Lotor, what in the stars are you—?”

He was leaning hard against the castle stones, his face pale, a cold sweat streaking down his tight face. His free hand was splayed against his side, and his voice was tight and breathless. “Allura.” His face was pale.

She looked down at his hand, and her eyes widened again at the sight of blood glimmering between his fingers. “Oh!” On instinct alone, she reached out to him, leaning hard against the windowsill. Her fingers began to glow with healing power, her eyes misting. “Come here.”

Lotor leaned against her almost immediately, his sweaty, heavy cheek pressing against the soft silk of her robe. His elfin ears flicked back, and he squeezed his eyes shut. “I—I know I should not have come.”

“What happened?” she begged, voice catching hard. She pressed her hand against his bloody side, a chill working through her at the deep, precise gash in Lotor’s heavy armor. Not just any sword or any average man, she knew, could have landed such a blow. “Who did this to you?”

Lotor’s yellow eyes opened, and he blearily stared into the familiar room that was Allura’s private chambers. “I sought to—determine my father’s character.” His white brows knitted together, and he grimaced, a strangled noise escaping him as he felt her cold power bite into the deep wound. And then, blissful numbness. The tension in his face relaxed. She took on more of his weight as he sighed. “To make a deal.”

The queen’s eyes watered hard as she leaned her cheek against his temple, her power working to sew up the deep gash. “Do you mean Zarkon did this?”

He grimaced, his breath evening out in exhaustion. “He is…strong, despite his age.” He coughed out in a wheeze. “But his politics worry me more than his strength.”

Allura’s fingers trembled against Lotor’s wound, his precious blood slipping down her wrist to stain the white of her silk robe. Distress overcame her, for she knew Zarkon as a good man. And yet, Lotor’s own body bore evidence of great violence. The cut was shallow but had nicked one of his ribs. With her free hand, she stroked Lotor’s long, white hair, lulling him into a sense of safety and comfort, as she had many times before in years past. “You’ll be just fine,” she whispered. “The pain should be dissipating.” 

His breath hitched against hers. “I do not feel pain with you.”

The glow of her hand died away. Her fingers slipped from his armor, his spilled blood still staining her skin. She hesitantly pulled back, her eyes blurring with tears. “Did you seek him out to reveal who you are?”

Lotor was yet pale from his wound, but there was a dark pain in his eyes. “I desired to test his morality for myself and offer him a deal. He does not know who I am.” 

Allura brushed back his matted hair, fearful of losing him. “You would do well to tell him,” she pressed, voice wavering. “He would never strike his own son in this way. You’ve seen him mourn you for years—it would utterly destroy him to know he has turned a blade on you.”

“He cannot know,” Lotor retorted, pulling away. He shakily ran his hand over his gashed armor. “He is an impulsive man. He would reveal me and undo my advantage.”

“What advantage is that?” she demanded.

His eyes flickered up to hers. “That his vassals do not anticipate a reckoning from the crown.” His clawed fingers fell away from his side, curling in with the uncomfortable feeling of his own sticky blood. He leaned against the stone wall, his face inches from Allura’s. “And the nobility do not desire a half-breed for an heir, as you know. I would be a target the instant I were revealed.”

She searched his eyes. She shakily reached up, daring to stroke his sharp cheek. “But I just got you back,” she whined softly. “I cannot lose you again. I cannot see you die.”

“I will not die,” he whispered back to her. His lips stretching, revealing mischievous fangs. “Not as long as you are my protector.”

Allura eyed him, unconvinced. “Oh? And what deal did you offer him tonight that would negate his interest in slicing you again?” she demanded in worry.

Lotor leaned his cheek into her hand, giving her an innocent look. “Merely, proof of the misdeeds of his vassals, in exchange for him deposing the guilty ones.”

“And he nearly gutted you for that?”

He grimaced. “I instigated a physical altercation. He was unsympathetic to the plight of our people.” He gave her puppy eyes, his velvet voice turning in a pouty pain. “Speaking of, princess, do you have Vulo for a poor beggar like me?”

The queen huffed in an incredulous hilarity, pulling her hand away from him. “No, I do not have Vulo. I have an incredible amount of concern.” Her voice turned with a plea. “Let me handle your father. I can get him to listen, and without resorting to the clashing of swords. I just need time and—and for him to settle down from all of this kidnapping business. He’s quite on edge and worried for me.” She poked his chest. “Because he has a deal of trauma from losing _you._ ”

Lotor’s brows knitted together. He looked down at her accusatory finger, and his elfin ears drooped. “No doubt, he will listen to your stories, for you are a Queen.” He gently grabbed for her hand, which was yet stained with his blood. “But you do not have eyes to capture the dark happenings in this empire.”

“I am aware,” she said, voice hardening. “However, I will _not_ open this window again to see you bleeding from wounds.”

The Prince searched her eyes. An emotion overcame him, tightening his face. He reached out with his clean hand to stroke her soft cheek, where her Altean marks nearly glowed in the moonlight. “I will not instigate him again,” he promised, voice softening. 

“And yet the Prince of the Court,” Allura retorted dryly, leaning into his touch, “comes to his own castle, begging for Vulo.” 

Those kissable lips of his split. With his healing, his purple skin had flushed back to a healthy color. “I do love Vulo, no matter its source.”

Allura hesitated.

And then she pulled away, motioning him in. “Come on, then,” she said, a small blush creeping over her. “I can order some from the kitchen. And while I work on that, you can work on getting your blood out of my priceless robe.” She wiggled the sleeve at him with a worry.

He leaned against the windowsill, his white hair spilling down his shoulder. “And here I thought,” he murmured, “that I would not see you again for a long while.”

But it had been many years since Lotor had snuck through a window to be with one Princess Allura. He crouched, his face flushing in a strange way as he awkwardly attempting to push through the opening, his shoulders broader, his armor catching in a scrape.

The queen looked back at him and giggled fondly, her misty eyes softening as she watched in great amusement. The mysterious Prince of the Court of Miracles angled himself awkwardly to slip through the window, his boots softly striking against expensive, but familiar tiles.

* * *

It came to be that the returning servants fulfilled Queen Allura’s strange request. A Vulo casserole dish was left outside Queen Allura’s door, as ordered. Allura peeked out, eyes wide, before she snuck the dish behind her door, closing and locking it for the night, the bell sleeves of a new purple robe swinging with the action.

On the other side of the private rooms, Lotor sat on the steps to the bath, half-naked. He had stripped off his own bloodied armor and tunic, leaving him in his combat boots and pants. His lips were pressed tightly together, his sharp face haunted as he scrubbed insistently at Allura’s bloodied robe sleeve. Then he lowered it into the refilled tub.

Off to the side lay his tunic and armor, his own blood still shining upon it.

The man’s expression twisted, and he looked down again, unable to stare at it for long. His cheeks flushed in a shame. And then his mind’s eye flashed with the memory of sharp metal biting into him. He stiffened, the cloth of Allura’s robe freezing in his hands.

“Lotor?” came a soft voice. The queen entered the baths, carrying a dish of Vulo.

The scent of savory meat and potatoes wafted into the room, above even the perfumes of the bath water. But he did not turn around. “I fear your robe is ruined,” he said, voice straining.

Allura leaned against the threshold. “It’s not the first clothing of mine I’ve ruined in your name,” she teased lightly. “Do not fret about it.”

“But I—”

“—Come in here and eat,” she offered. Her white brows knitted together. “I can simply cut the sleeves and sew them. It’s truly not of consequence.”

Lotor still did not turn around, but his white hair shifted against his broad, bare shoulders. “My own tunic is…” He waved a wet hand at the pile on the floor and sighed, then ran his fingers through his hair, frazzled.

Allura lowered the dish slightly, eyeing him. “Something must be terribly wrong,” she said, voice slow, “for you to not jump at the scent of Vulo.”

He swallowed hard, then turned to eye her, quirking a brow. “Does it bother you, then, that I am yet underdressed in your presence?”

She searched his eyes, then whispered, “No.” Her cheeks flushed, and she looked down at the dish in her hand. “Though I suppose we could try to fit you into that old pink robe of mine.”

That did it. His face softened in a wry delight. “I would split the seams, and then you would have two robes to resew.”

A merry, comfortable silence stretched between them. “I don’t mind,” she said.

Lotor planted a hand against the step, and then he rose to his full height, towering over her. He ran his other hand over his healed side. He hesitated to speak, his heart swelling with deep emotions for the queen. “Thank you,” he whispered.

She looked up at him, the space between them having closed in. And then she offered him the Vulo dish.

His hands wrapped around hers—still wet with the bathwaters but hot with the burning blood of a Galran.

* * *

Like old times, the fallen prince and the queen sat on the floor before the grand fireplace of her room. Lotor ate of the Vulo, but this time with a fork instead of his hands. He sat cross-legged, a pink blanket thrown around his naked shoulders, as he leaned his back against a cushy chair.

Allura sat beside him on the floor in a swirl of her purple robe, snipping away at the sleeves of her ruined white one. The wet cloth with Lotor’s blood stain fell to the floor as the fire crackled.

She turned to look at him, searching him over discretely. The blanket did not hide the bare front of his chest or his strong forearms—and there, against the glow of the fireplace, her eyes caught the sight of scars upon him.

She hesitated, then reached out.

Lotor’s eyes snapped to her curiously as he munched on the Vulo casserole.

Her fingertips ghosted over a snaking line that slipped around his elbow. “This does not look to be from a sword. And I do not remember it on you, when you were little.”

He looked away then. “…You have an impressive eye,” he said softly. And then he stuffed a fork full of Vulo into his mouth, as if in hopes of avoiding such conservation. His white hair slipped against his purple cheek, hiding his eyes from her.

Allura’s fingers did not move. “This seems to be a…scar from rope,” she whispered. “Pray tell how it happened?”

He swallowed down hard on the Vulo, then turned to eye her. “It is in the distant past. If I spoke of the incident, it would upset you for no reason.”

Her white brows furrowed in pain as she searched his gaze. She bit her lip. “Of course. I just—” she meagerly flailed her hands, lowering her sewing work to her lap.

Lotor searched her face. For all of their deep friendship, Allura simply did not understand the cruelty of the streets or the lengths to which some nobles tormented half-bloods for entertainment. He faltered as he stared into her innocent, worried eyes. He set down his dish of Vulo on the floor. “It was before my time as the Prince of the Court.”

The queen’s eyes misted. “Forgive me,” she said, awkwardly moving to wipe her cheeks. Distress came over her. “I simply wish to protect you from such terrible things. I could kidnap you, I think, and steal you away, back to Altea. Where I could ensure that no one ever hurt you again.”

His clawed fingers moved to brush against his healed side, where his father’s blade had bitten into him. “What of my people, then? The Court?”

“They could come with us,” she said earnestly, voice raising in a plea. “It’s a very tolerant planet, and the little ones could become apprentices and master their creative arts—”

“—Allura—”

“—And maybe one day, you could reveal your true identity, and your parents could visit, and you could return as the true prince you are—”

“—Allura,” Lotor cut in, not unkindly but firm. He gently grabbed for her hands, intertwining his fingers with hers. “Daibazaal will not fix itself. You know this as well as I. The Court of Miracles can do what no other party can.”

Her breath hitched. Her fingers tightened against his desperately as she leaned closer. “I’ve been thinking…I can explain your situation to my advisors. Now that I have seen your world, I can reveal Daibazaal’s corrupt nobility and how they have misappropriated Altean relief funds. We can apply a different kind of political pressure on your father’s vassals. Even with our non-expansion agreements throughout the galaxy, there are ways I can help you. _As_ Queen of Altea.”

Their faces were only inches away now.

Lotor reached up and stroked her cheek. “You will paint a target upon you. You do not know my father’s vassals as I know them.”

Her free fingers moved to clasp his bare forearm, where his rope scar shadowed a dark purple. “Did _they_ do this to you?”

He fell silent, his eyes sliding sideways. He could not lie to her.

Allura’s eyes watered hard now. “Then you are painting a target upon yourself, as this Prince of the Court.”

“I will not die,” he promised to her. “I simply need your trust. As I need my father’s as well.”

The queen fell silent for a time. Her fingers stroked his scar, which disrupted the smooth of his skin and the soft white hairs atop his arm. “You will always have my trust. But I will not always be here for you.”

“What do you mean?”

She swallowed hard, looking up to meet his gaze, her lips only inches from his own. “I am Queen of another planet, visiting here in the name of diplomacy and supporting your family per the anniversary of your _death_. Eventually, I must return to my people. And—” Her voice strained as her whole demeanor faltered. “If I am forced to marry, I will…I will lose even more privacy and time to assist you.”

Lotor’s face pulled in pain—and darkness. The slightest spark of a jealousy wove through him. “But you do not wish to marry, and you are Queen. Surely, you can rule against them.” 

Allura blinked and tears slipped from her eyes. “My people already grumble against me,” she whispered. “I may return with a husband one day, only to see your body hanging from the gates of some vassal’s estate. And your father and mother—they might know only too late who you really were—”

Her eyes watered so hard that his image blurred before her. Her fingers trembled against his.

His white hair slipped down his bare chest and the pink blanket around his shoulders. He leaned forward to brush his nose against hers in a Galran token of affection, but his eyes still burned with an odd jealousy. His actions tinged with a slightest possession at the thought of another man stealing Allura away when he knew her heart. “Have more faith. We are both stronger than others believe us to be.”

Allura’s brows knitted together against his, her breath catching as she leaned against him for strength. “I fear this will all end unhappily,” she cried softly. “I will be married to a man I do not love. I will have to bear him children, but it will be you I long for. And you will be dead.”

Lotor’s throat tightened. He pulled away and searched her eyes, looking old and too young all at once. His own eyes began to mist.

“I love you,” she whispered. “I can’t lose you again. I just can’t.”

He moved to nuzzle her again in an act to comfort a mate. “I love you as well,” he whispered back, voice rough. “And you will never lose me. I promise you this.”

She held his gaze. Gravity seemed to relocate to her lips—the distance between them, ever closing—

Every cell in his body surged forward. Lotor bridged the gap between them with impassioned emotion, fervently capturing her mouth to seal his undying affection for her. 

_At last._

Allura made a noise of delight and clung to him tight, closing her eyes in deep want. A spark lit in her mouth from his, and she opened her lips in utter pleasure and need. The burn of attraction between her legs lit into a tightly coiled fire, rushing her veins with heat. She wanted friction.

She needed it.

Lotor’s clawed fingers slipped beneath her curls to cradle her, his lips following her own.

She moved closer to him, turning to kiss him more solidly. In doing so, the material of her robe unsettled, falling down slim shoulders, revealing the swell of her breasts.

Allura, on instinct, moved to straddle him as she kissed him desperately. Her robe unsettled further as her bare legs slid against his clothed thighs.

It seemed that every touch stole away a little more of their sense. A guttural noise escaped Lotor’s throat as their hips jammed together in a sweet pain. He leaned back against the chair behind him, his elegant neck tilting up in submission to Allura mounting him. His eyes opened, and the full of his blue irises were overtaken by dilated pupils.

The queen pulled away, her face red with a flush of desire, her chest heaving from unsteady breath. “Oh,” she whispered.

Her robe’s tie was all that remained between his gaze and her body—and between them, his body had hardened.

Lotor searched her eyes, his face tight and flushed as well.

The flame of the fire to their side flickered an orange glow upon them, and it made Allura appear as if she were on fire as well, her white hair flickering with reds and oranges and yellows.

Her bare thighs trembled.

His clawed fingers slipped down, stroking the bare lines of her shoulders, then settling around her waist, where he gently guided her to settle upon him fully. Allura’s brows knitted together in reverent need. He watched her, suddenly desiring to drive himself hard between her legs.

Purple fabric tangled between his hands and her thighs as they held there together, trembling with only the thin material of his pants between them.

Allura’s hot fingers moved to stroke his cheeks in awe. Her own eyes had dilated with the knowledge of lust. Her fingers slipped down to his chest, sweeping back the small pink blanket from his shoulders. And then she leaned forward and pressed a gentle kiss to his shoulder.

That did it.

The Galran man’s eyes squeezed shut in delight, his lips breaking open. The firelight caught his slightly lengthening fangs—an effect of arousal. “Ah, Allura.” His sweaty palms tightened in the material around her thighs as he caressed her.

His hips lifted lightly against her.

The heat.

He could feel her heat—all encompassing—cradling his desire—

The queen shuddered in delight. She leaned her cheek against his shoulder, her thighs stretching open more as she slid against the floor. “Lotor.” Her hands gripped into his side, at the hem of his pants. “I—oh, I feel it. The need. Do you?”

His eyes opened, staring up into heaven as he shuddered out a breath of ecstasy. “Yes,” he whispered, in a delighted pain. His heart began to swell. His pelvis burned, hot. “Yes.”

Instinct overwhelmed him. His muscles tightened, and he flexed, moving to cradle her. He bore her to the side of the chair, gently moving to lay her back against the floor as he moved above her. Her robe unsettled fully around her fully spread legs, the scent of her arousal striking him hard. His eyes nearly rolled up at the scent of it, his heart pounding in a mad awe.

The queen’s breath hitched. She hesitated, then shakily moved to pull the robe away fully from her breasts. The material pooled around her—a cloud of purple. “You know I am yours.” Her voice broke. “I want to be yours. And for you to be mine.”

Lotor’s bare chest brushed against her own as he leaned down to kiss her fully again, fervent. His lengthening claws scraped against the tile of the floor as his hips connected with hers more solidly.

A strangled cry of desire vibrated from her mouth into his, happily. Her thighs trembled as she held open for him, her fingers flailing between them to untie the string of his pants. He pulled away briefly. “I _am_ yours,” he whispered shakily to her, his breath an unsteady puff against her lips. “I have always been so.”

And then he looked down between them, leaning to press a kiss atop her soft, warm breast. His angled, rough tongue slipped out to caress her skin as his hand wrapped around hers between them, helping her unravel his pant strings so that he could be one with her.

His hem unraveled, his body slipping free of the restraints.

Allura’s back arched, the fire within her sparking into an all-consuming inferno—

—And it was then that there was a knock at the door.

Lotor froze along with Allura, his tongue pausing against her breast and arms locking tight in fear. Beneath him, the queen tensed as well, the lust and awe and affection freezing.

“Allura?” came a baritone voice through the intercom.

_Zarkon._

Another soft knock. “Honerva says that you do not wish to be disturbed,” the emperor continued, voice hesitant. “But I—I have returned from the old temple of the druids. And I must speak with you.”

Allura’s chest heaved.

Above her, Lotor held still, his elfin ears pulled back fully against his skull—as if he had been caught stealing at the market. An awareness began to bleed into his eyes, as if suddenly he realized what he had been doing, his dilated eyes shrinking back to slit pupils.

He and Allura had been about to _make love._

The queen hesitated. She shakily pulled her hands away from Lotor and wiped her forehead, her voice catching in all too many frustrations. “Ah, I was—resting.” She gently and silently patted Lotor’s side in a plea. “And I was preparing for bed.”

He slid off of her, his limbs trembling as his pants unraveled around his narrow hips. His cheeks flushed hard in a terrified awe of himself and his waning sense in the presence of Allura. His clawed fingers awkwardly worked to retie his pants and resettled his hem. He held his breath in fear that Emperor Zarkon would hear him.

Allura meanwhile, sat up in a daze, her white curls streaming down her naked back and front as she worked to pull on her purple robe. She touched her bare breast where Lotor’s tongue had drawn a love line, and her breath caught. She looked back at him in a turmoil of great emotion. 

He gave her a wide-eyed look back, his expression tight. He could still smell her arousal—the round, earthy scent of a fertile woman who desired him—He squeezed his eyes shut, turning away in pain. He planted his clawed fingers against the floor, pulling himself up, the fireplace casting golden light around him.

Zarkon’s voice echoed over the intercom with heavy strain patterns. “I recognize you have endured significant distress,” he said. “But events have occurred that—may require immediate action, including action for your own security.”

Allura’s fingers tightened in her robe as she sat on the floor in loss. “I must dress appropriately to meet you,” she called out, voice wavering as she fought down her own breathlessness. “May I—may I ask what has occurred that has so disturbed you?”

There was a pause.

“I will speak of it only in person,” Zarkon said haltingly. “Meet Honerva and myself in the war room.”

Her elfin ears flicked back, the last of her flush draining from her face. The war room was a private, heavily fortified council room in the center of the castle.

The folds of her purple robe flailed as she awkwardly moved to stand, working to tie it. “I will be there,” she called back. “In about ten doboshes.”

“That is well.” Zarkon’s voice began to drift off, as if he were walking away.

The queen stood there before the fireplace, a chill streaking down her body. She turned around, her curls a puff against her. She was alone in the room.

She surged forward, her bare feet a soft pitter against the floor. She ran to the washrooms and caught sight of Lotor kneeling by his blooded shirt and armor, quickly working to pull all of it back on himself. The armor made a soft click as he locked it over his chest. The symbol of the Blades glimmered in the light. 

She flew down, kneeling beside him to help him with his armor, her fingers trembling. “You must leave immediately.”

His eyes were haunted as he turned to her, their lips once again but inches away. “Yes. Before he finds me, or we—”

Allura swallowed hard. She pushed a vambrace toward him. Her hands brushed against his. “It is…probably just as well. That we were stopped.”

“Yes.” His face tightened in pain. He leaned forward, pressing a quick kiss to her flushed cheek, his brows knitting fervently. “I am sorry. I simply—I lost myself and—”

The queen pressed her lips together, her heart catching as she leaned into his sweet token of affection. “I wanted it too,” she whispered. And then she pulled away, swallowing hard. 

Lotor snapped his vambrace on, quickly locking it into place. He stood up, running a frazzled hand through his hair. His armor still bore a streak of red blood splattered across his side. He looked in that moment overwhelmed by the power of his own lust. “The emperor will be expecting you. My scent is upon you—”

Her eyes widened as she moved toward the bath tub to refill it. “Right. Yes. And you still have Vulo by the fireplace.”

His boots slid on the floor, his eyes widening as well. “Ah—the Vulo.” And then his white hair streamed behind him as he moved toward the parlor room of Allura’s apartments. The children of the Court would be able to eat from the dish.

Despite the circumstances, Allura’s lips twitched fondly. The water from the bath streamed against her dark fingers, washing away the scent of Lotor.

He soon reappeared in the doorway, holding on tight to the Vulo casserole dish. “When do you leave for Altea?” 

In that moment, he looked young—as if it were the old days, with his eyes watering with tears, knowing he would have to leave her to wander the streets.

Her voice softened. “Not for a few more quintants at least. Will I see you again?" 

He hesitated, his sharp eyes beholding her. And his lips stretched to reveal his bright, mischievous fangs, and the image of a scared boy melted into a man who had a delightfully scheming mind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I had writer's block with this story for several months. And then today suddenly all of this just flailed itself onto the screen. I wasn't sure at first whether to keep the scene of Lotor and Allura having a sexual encounter, but it felt like per their increasing interest in such that it would also be increasingly hard to avoid it. And per the rating of the story, I was already gearing up for some more graphic content than what's been shown previously. So I hope this chapter worked out okay! If not, I'm always up for constructive criticism, lol. If it's not already terribly obvious, haha, smut is also not something I write often. So I'm working out what my style is and how to convey stuff without getting, like, gross or too metaphorical or breaking the flow of the overall story. XD
> 
> In the meantime, I'm still humming along with Lotura stories and hope you all are staying safe and healthy still. 
> 
> Please review with your thoughts, constructive criticisms, questions, and/or ideas/requests! Thank you!


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